


Phantom Cigarettes

by GuenVanHelsing



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Angst with a Happy Ending, DGHDA Big Bang and Beginner Bang, DGHDA Big Bang and Beginner Bang 2018, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Excessive Swearing, Found Family, Ghosts, I promise there's a happy ending, Kinda, Recreational Drug Use, So much angst, Supernatural Elements, Swearing, TEMP O R A RY, Temporary Character Death, background Cross/Bee & pre-Amanda/Martin, im not sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-29 23:44:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 41,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15739725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuenVanHelsing/pseuds/GuenVanHelsing
Summary: Best friends Bee & Amanda move into a house with three guys. They’re a little odd, but nice enough -- though they do seem rather haunted by the accident their mysterious fourth roommate was in. In fact, the entire house seems a little haunted, especially to Amanda, who keeps catching glimpses of the ghostly figure of a man with white hair.As the girls settle in, the five housemates get to know each other, growing ever closer. Meanwhile, they’re dealing with a mysterious break-in; living in a haunted house; not one, but two surprise pets; and the guys’ grief over the loss of their friend. And Martin? Martin’s dealing with being a ghost, a ghost who can see and hear what goes on in the house, but who can’t do anything to help at all... or can he?





	1. In the Beginning, There was an Accident

**Author's Note:**

  * For [setmeatopthepyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/setmeatopthepyre/gifts).



> This fic would literally not have been possible without the endless love and support (and late night idea bouncing) of [setmeatopthepyre](http://setmeatopthepyre.tumblr.com/) who is fantastic beyond belief. Ilysm tysm for ur help lovelyyyy <3
> 
> The wonderful [kimbus-the-whimbus](http://kimbus-the-whimbus.tumblr.com/) made the [most goRGEOUS artwork](http://kimbus-the-whimbus.tumblr.com/post/177187133132/here-is-my-piece-for-the-dghdabigbang-i-was/) <3 <3 <3

“You sure this is the right address?” said Amanda, looking from the building to the paper printout in her hand and back again. “This looks nothing like the picture.”

Bee leaned over her arm to squint over her sunglasses at the paper. “Is a shitty photo,” she said, and Amanda shrugged.

“Let’s see if it looks any better on the inside,” she said, and shuddered as a cold breeze whipped down the sidewalk and curled under her hair. They climbed up the steps onto the rickety porch, and Amanda added bonus points to her mental tally for the black porch swing with red cushions installed to the left of the door. She had a soft spot for porch swings.

The door was yanked open before she could knock, revealing a very tall, very frazzled-looking man with a circle tattooed around one eye. He was also wearing a shirt and pants that were coated in paint. “Hi,” he said, “you’re, uh, just a little early.”

“Um,” said Bee, and Amanda smiled inwardly to see her friend turning almost as red as her hair.

“I’m Amanda,” she said, holding out her hand. He shook it, and she grinned. “This is Bee. We’re here about the apartment listing?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m Cross. An’ like I said, you’re early.” He held the door open and stepped back. “Come on in, then. Excuse the mess, this has kind of been a rushed operation.”

“We saw the listing is pretty new,” said Amanda, when Bee still hadn’t said anything, and Cross had smiled awkwardly at them both before ushering them down a short hallway into a living room covered in paint drapes. “Uh… is this place under construction?”

“Kind of,” said Cross. “Not really. Maybe. Sorta.” He gestured vaguely at his paint-stained clothes and at the abandoned roller and pan near the wall, which was almost entirely the same blue as was on his clothes. “The paint will be dry in a few hours as soon as I finish this side, promise. _Vogel!”_ he roared the last word, and both Amanda and Bee jumped. “Oi, Vogel! The girls are here!”

“Girls,” muttered Bee under her breath, and Amanda narrowed her eyes at Cross -- both cues that he missed entirely, as a whirlwind flew down the stairs, a blur of bright colours and motion that solidified into a young man with a wild pompadour and a black-spotted red shirt that made him vaguely resemble a ladybug. A very hyperactive ladybug.

“This is Vogel,” said Cross, and the younger man smiled wildly and waved.

“That’s me!” he said. “Hi! Welcome to our home!”

“Hi,” said Amanda, matching his smile. She glanced between him and Cross, and wondered if they were dating. Cross _was_ kind of cute -- although her matchmaking heart was already yearning to set him up with Bee on a date. “Is this a bad time?”

“This is a _great_ time!” said Vogel, then his smile faded. “Not so great, really. But great that you’re here! You seem nice! Has Cross given you the tour yet? Would you like some tea? I make great tea.”

“He does make good tea,” said Cross. “Vogel, could you give ‘em the tour real quick -- _but not too quick_ \-- so I can finish up this room before the paint dries?”

“Come on, I’ll give you the fivepenny tour,” said Vogel, then leaned close to whisper theatrically, “it won’t cost five pennies.” Then he was running for the hallway, and Amanda only had a moment for one exasperated glance at a distracted Cross before Bee was dragging her after their excited tour guide.

“I’ll show you the upstairs, first, because it’s the least interesting,” Vogel was saying, bounding up the stairs at a speed that had Amanda and Bee scrambling to keep up with him. “Mostly it’s bedrooms, and closets for cleaning and storage stuff.” He gestured at the closed or semi-closed doors as they went. “Bedroom, bedroom, bedroom, _my_ bedroom,” he specified, gesturing at the one door in the hallway that was painted dark blue instead of the the varnished wood of the others. There was also a yellow sign tacked to the door, just above eye level for Amanda, and she grinned.

“‘Caution: cryptids’?” she said, reading the text on the sign aloud, and Vogel’s face lit up. “You like cryptids?”

“I _love_ cryptids,” he said, shoving the door to the room open. “Come on in!”

Amanda glanced at Bee, who shrugged and followed Vogel into his room. Amanda stepped in after her, shaking her head slightly, and her eyes widened as she took in the room.

The upper third of the walls and the entire ceiling was painted to mimic the night sky, with the dusting of the Milky Way visible and familiar constellations spread around the room. The blue faded into dusky sunset colours toward the floor, or at least, what Amanda could see of the lower walls between the multiple bookshelves. There were books _everywhere,_ on shelves and stacked on the cluttered desk, piled or strewn around the floor, and some of the titles that she could make out ranged from alien conspiracies to dinosaurs to… elementary math?

“Pardon my asking, but are you a teacher?” said Bee, and Vogel smiled, nodding vigorously.

“Kindergarten!” he said, with far more cheer than Amanda had _ever_ heard the word said. “Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess in here, we’re doing a unit on dinosaurs this week.” He pointed to one of the bookshelves, which was more neatly organized than the others only by the virtue of all the books were aligned, likely due to the fact that every spare inch of shelf space in front of the books was home to various sizes of figurines of cryptids, some of which Amanda recognized and most of which were unfamiliar. A very fluffy plush of what she thought was a jersey devil sat at the very top of the bookcase like a vulture, and her fingers itched to touch it and find out if it was as soft as it looked. She’d read some of the stories about the cryptid in question, and it seemed a little unfair that a plush version would be so _cute._ “These are all -- well, most -- well, okay, _some_ \-- of my cryptid books and stuff,” Vogel was saying. “There’s others mixed in everywhere and somewhere in the attic there’s another box of ‘em but I haven’t seen it in ages. The box is practically a cryptid itself!” He giggled, and Amanda and Bee couldn’t help laughing with him.

Vogel seemed… really nice. A little too much like a puppy on a never-ending supply of energizer batteries, but nice. Amanda glanced up at the plush again, then shook her head at herself as Vogel practically bounced from the room.

“C’mon, there’s still lots to show you!” he said. “Oh, and there’s one of the bathrooms,” he added, almost as an afterthought, pointing at the door that was cracked open at the end of the hall.  “And, uh, when -- I mean, _if_ \-- you guys decide to live here, you’re welcome to check out any of the books I’ve got. There’s lots. We could probably start our own library between the four… of us.” Vogel hesitated, his smile slipping a little, before he straightened, his smile back in full force. “Anyway, yeah, that’s my room. That’s Gripps, by me, and Cross, there, if you’re ever looking for them. And, uh, that one’s off-limits.” He gestured at the first door they had passed, near the top of the stairs, and Amanda glanced at Bee to see her friend looking quickly at her with raised eyebrows. “Downstairs is your rooms,” Vogel added quickly, already heading down the stairs, and Bee reached out to squeeze Amanda’s hand once before they both followed him.

An off-limits room. Huh. Amanda’s curiosity was piqued.

“Living room, obviously,” said Vogel as she hurried to join him and Bee at the foot of the stairs, and Cross waved at them from across the room, where he was carefully peeling painter’s tape from the walls. A trail of crumpled piles of blue tape littered the floor to his left, marking his progress, and Amanda smothered a snicker when she saw he had somehow managed to get a streak of blue paint across one cheek. “Hiiiii, Cross,” called Vogel in a singsong voice, skirting around a table and beckoning for them to follow him into a room tucked behind the stairs. He waved once at a closed door on the left as they passed it. “That’s where the vacuum lives, by the way, and the broom, and chemical cleaning stuff. I think. Gripps might have moved some. Aaaaand here’s the rooms!”

Amanda paused in the doorway as Vogel and Bee walked into the first room. It was spacious, and sparsely furnished with a huge bed that she suspected was queen-sized, a simple wooden desk by the window, and a single bookcase. The window had a window _seat,_ and Amanda immediately was drawn to it, resting one knee against the thin cushion and pulling back the lacy curtains to peer outside. It offered a nice view of the side yard, which was as neatly trimmed as the front of the house had been, and the neighbors’ house next door.

“The other room has two windows, thanks to the back wall of the house,” said Vogel, almost apologetically, and Amanda stepped back from the window, letting the curtain fall. It settled, then shifted, almost as if a breeze had stirred it. There must have been a draft, because a moment later she felt a slight chill on her arm. “The closet in this one is pretty spacious, though. And it’s right across from the bathroom.”

“May we see that?” said Bee, and Amanda hid a grin. Every place they had been to see so far, Bee had always asked to see the bathrooms. Specifically, whether or not the bathrooms had an actual _bath._

“Sure!” Vogel led them across the hall and pushed open the bathroom door, gesturing grandly for them to venture in, and Bee shot a wild grin at Amanda before moving to inspect the almost sinfully gorgeous clawfoot tub. It was massive, with an additional ledge around the back edge and the sides to create a smooth transition into the shower wall. “There’s a shower nozzle for it, too,” said Vogel, pointing up, and Bee’s eyes widened.

“A shower _and_ a perfect bath?” she said, and Vogel grinned.

“Ain’t gonna lie, this one does the best bubble baths.”

“Cool, right?” said Bee, glancing at Amanda, and she found herself nodding. Bee looked at the tub again and sighed wistfully before turning back to their tour guide. “Okay, Vogel, carry on.”

“Right this way,” he said, and into the other bedroom they went. Two windows, just as large as the other room, with window seats, a full-sized bed, and a dresser with rather dinged-up drawers but one which made up for it by having a set of three mirrors angled along the top. “This is the main guest room,” said Vogel, “usually when parents or whomever come to visit and don’t bother to find hotels.” He looked a little miffed for a moment, and Amanda hid another smile. “We haven’t repainted in here yet.”

Bee sidled up to Amanda. “Look out the window,” she said, and practically dragged her over to the window overlooking the back lawn. The drapes were heavier, solid coloured fabric instead of lace, already drawn back in their ties, and Amanda leaned forward to peer out.

The backyard was _huge._

Also a bit of a mess.

 _Less manicured_ would have been a gentle way of describing it, but it was a mess. There was a section closer to the house with stone squares set into the grass, making a small patio which held a grill and some sort of low-sitting brazier, and not far beyond it in the grass was a shabby-looking picnic table covered in spray-painted letters Amanda couldn’t quite make out. Set off to the side was a lone, enormous tree that had a rope swing dangling from it.

What was truly stunning, however, was the mass of flowers that lined the house. The blooms spread out from the enormous hydrangeas she could see against the side of the house in a circle along the edge of the lawn, in a rainbow of colours and varying heights and sizes, all leading up to a patch of massive sunflowers that seemed intent on being close neighbors to the trees. Lower sections of plants made up an inner circle, many with stakes holding up vines and others with little white tags that she assumed were the names of what was planted there.

It looked magical.

“I could ask about planting a little herb garden out there,” Bee murmured to Amanda, unheard by Vogel, who was bouncing from foot to foot by the door, not impatiently but just full of that same restless energy.

“Yeah,” said Amanda, glancing back at the window once before following Vogel out of the room, Bee at her side.

“Oh, wait, there’s one more room down here.” They hurried after him into a completely bare room and Vogel skidded to a halt in the center, spinning around with his arms spread wide. “This is the spare room. The _really_ spare room,” he added, with a laugh. It was huge, with a bare hardwood floor and huge windows that took up the majority of two of the walls -- with the pale walls that were painted the lightest shade of blue, the entire roomed was bathed in light. “We hosted a few parties in here, because it’s big, and there’s a folding table out in the garage for when company comes over, y’know, and it mostly gets used as a music room.”

“A _music_ room?” said Amanda, her eyes lighting up, but Vogel missed her reaction as he was already heading back for the living room.

“Did you show them the kitchen?” called Cross, and Vogel swore, dragging them past the stairs to the kitchen.

“Best room in the entire house,” said Vogel solemnly, pointing to the back of the room. “There’s a door to the backyard, there, and in the summer we usually leave just the screen door shut unless it’s raining or something.” He pointed at the ceiling. “See that big stain there? We were making pizza and Cross tried to be all fancy and toss the dough but he tossed it when it was already sauced and it was a _mess.”_

“This is _huge,”_ said Bee, heading for the counter to spin the spice rack before turning to survey the cupboards, the kitchen island, and the small wooden table pressed against the wall, with four chairs shoved around it. “Do you eat here, usually?”

“Yeah, if we’re all eating together,” said Vogel. “Sometimes we eat in the living room -- when it isn’t a _mess!”_ he yelled the last part in the direction of the doorway, presumably at Cross. “But yeah, this is the shared kitchen, and we’ll make space in the fridge and cupboards for you to put any foodstuffs. The four of us take turns cooking meals and we try to keep it neat.” Vogel was bouncing on his heels in place, glancing back toward the living room. “So, yep, that’s pretty much the house. There’s an attic, but we don’t really use that except for storage space, and-- oh! The basement! There’s a washer and dryer and _more_ storage, and there might be some old bicycles down there? Maybe. And the garage! That isn’t cleared out yet, though, so Cross made me promise not to take you in there. We didn’t know if you’d have vehicles or anything...”

“Hey, you making that tea yet?” said Cross, appearing in the kitchen doorway and wiping his hands on a rag, smears of blue paint everywhere. How exactly he had managed to get some on his shoulders, Amanda wasn’t sure, but she was certain he hadn’t been quite that covered in blue paint splotches when he’d let them into the house.

“Sure, sure, you drink herbal, right?” said Vogel cheerfully, snapping a sharp salute, and scurried off before they could answer. Cross grinned weakly at them and shook his head.

“You’ll have to, uh, forgive him. He’s a little bit manic after he’s had coffee,” he said. “You get used to it. So.” He hesitated, then sighed. “I’m sure you were wondering, so, uh. There used to be four of us.” Amanda felt her stomach sink at the pain that was tugging at his pretty features. “There was an accident… about a week ago. We’re still not-- it still doesn’t seem real that he isn’t here.” He cleared his throat, then said in a stronger tone, “But it’s nothing you need to worry about. The point is, we need at least one more housemate in order to make the rent, and we’ve got plenty of space. We share the basement, that’s where the laundry is. And obviously the kitchen. What do you think?”

Amanda shared a look with Bee. They _really_ needed the apartment. Their lease was up and their landlord had already found tenants who were happy to pay more than what Amanda and Bee had been able to scrape together each month, and while the two guys seemed a little kooky, they didn’t seem to be at a serial killer level crazy. Bee nodded, and Amanda turned a blindingly bright smile at Cross. “We’ll take it,” she said, keeping the grin fixed in place when his eyes widened. “You said two thousand down for the first month, right? Then it’s eight hundred a month?”

“Right,” said Cross, “sort of a security deposit, right?” He managed a distracted smile as Vogel dashed back into the room, balancing a tray of tea things -- Cross whisked the painting drapes from the coffee table and a few chairs so they could sit. “Thanks, Vogel. Did you hear? They’re gonna be joining us.”

“Awesome!” said Vogel, and his smile was brighter than Amanda’s painted one had been. “I promise it’ll be fun!”

“That’s a big promise to keep,” said Cross, and Vogel laughed as he poured tea for them all. Amanda accepted the offered cup -- on a saucer, no less, even though none of the delicate dishes matched -- and helped herself to the available sugar.

“You’ll meet Gripps -- our other roommate -- uhhhh, tonight? Vogel, how late is he working today?”

“Eleven,” said Vogel, and Amanda hid a smile at the three spoonfuls of sugar he dumped into his cup before stirring it into a syrupy mix. “Real late. He said to eat dinner without him.”

“No kidding,” said Cross. “I ain’t gonna wait until eleven-thirty to eat _dinner_.”

“How many roommates do you have?” said Amanda, keeping her tone light. The listing for the house hadn’t said how many roommates precisely, but she had been expecting one, maybe two, and she hadn’t wanted to assume that all of them lived there.

“It’s just the three of us now,” said Cross. “Well, counting the two of you, it’ll be five. A full house!”

“Great,” said Amanda, glancing at Bee, who had been very quiet. “That sound good to you?”

Bee nodded, her gaze darting quickly to Cross and back to Amanda, and the dark-haired woman grinned. Oh, yes, it was going to be fun living with these boys.

Or super dramatic, depending on how everything went, she supposed, as another chill ran down her spine -- had there been a window open? She tugged her jacket tighter around her and glanced at her blushing friend again.

Possibly dramatic, for sure.

But.

Definitely _fun._

 

\--

 

Martin remembered dying.

It wasn’t a pretty memory.

Martin had been waiting by the van for the boys to finish up inside, taking the few minutes of quiet to smoke a cigarette in relative peace -- he’d had a headache all day, a low throbbing one that hadn’t been too hard to ignore but irritating nonetheless. It had been quiet, nothing out of the ordinary, just another lazy afternoon out with his friends.

Martin remembered the squeal of tires, the high-pitched yelp of an animal. He remembered turning, the cigarette slipping from his hands as he leapt forward, ducking low to snatch the little dog from the street as a car swerved wildly to avoid them. He remembered the car clipping his hip and sending him spinning, curled protectively around the dog, and he remembered the creature’s whines as he lay on the pavement, vision fading into black, with blood spreading over the tarmac in a widening pool that he knew was bonzo bad news.

He remembered hoping the cigarette would burn out without starting a fire.

He remembered the dog stepping in the blood and licking his face with a tongue his skin couldn’t feel.

He remembered seeing Cross step out of the building, laughing and happy, and he remembered watching the smile drop from his best friend’s face.

Then he remembered nothing at all.

 


	2. In Which there is More Angst

It had been a little over a week since the accident, and Martin hadn’t… fully adjusted to being dead. He hadn’t put much thought into an afterlife, too busy keeping his friends and himself afloat in the present world to worry about what his soul would do after his death, and waking up as a ghost had been a bit of a shock. 

Martin hadn’t realized, at first. He’d been wandering around the house in a daze, feeling foggy and unsure what the cause of it was, and not knowing how he’d gotten home. He had only managed to focus past the incessant beeping he couldn’t seem to locate the source of when the front door opened to let in a bedraggled Cross, who was still wearing yesterday’s clothes and had a reddish tinge to his eyes that told Martin that his friend had been crying recently, hard. 

“Cross?” he had said, but the taller man had ignored him and kicked off his boots before heading straight up the stairs, Martin on his heels as he realized he wasn’t going to get an answer standing in the hallway. “Cross,  _ wait. _ What’s wrong?” 

He had caught up to him at the top of the stairs, finding him standing in front of the closed door to Martin’s room with one fist raised as if to knock. The dark-haired man’s arm was trembling, and he let it fall against the wood, leaning forward the rest his forehead against the door, shoulders shaking. 

_ “Cross,” _ Martin had said, his voice breaking as surely as his heart was to see his friend hurting, and reached for him. 

His fingers sank right through his shoulder, and Cross jumped, jerking away from the touch and spinning to face him, eyes wide as he  _ looked right through him, _ his eyes searching the hallway before he seemed to deflate, exhaustion creeping over his features. “Nothin’ there,” he had muttered, and turned, glancing at the door, and his face crumpled as he sank to his knees on the floor with a muffled sob.

“No,” Martin had whispered, a terrible weight settling on his chest as he watched his best friend cry, as he looked down at his own hands and found them translucent. A keen of despair escaped him as he sank down next to Cross, wrapping his arms around himself to keep from reaching out and curling in on himself as the tears came, his body wracked with sobs. 

“This isn’t happening,” Cross had whispered, and Martin hadn’t been able to move from his spot on the floor, not until Gripps and Vogel had arrived and come running up the stairs, calling for Cross, and Martin had climbed to his feet and staggered out of the way until his back hit the opposite wall and he slid to the floor again, hardly able to breathe through his tears. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” Gripps had said quietly, crouching beside Cross and pulling him into a hug, with Vogel wrapping his arms around them both, and Martin had sobbed, invisible to their eyes and unable to offer his friends comfort. For the first time since they had met each other, all those years ago, Martin had looked at his friends and never felt so alone in his life. 

But that had been the crux of the matter -- he didn’t  _ have _ a life anymore. 

He was dead. 

The rest of the week had passed in a haze of wildly fluctuating emotion, bouts of crying mixed with apathy for anything, and the choking feeling of oncoming tears any time he saw one of his friends and saw in the tight set of their faces that they were barely holding themselves together. 

They were hurting, and there was nothing he could do to help them. 

 

\--

 

It had taken a few days for him to finally admit to himself that this was it, that his time with them was over. He’d had some time during those days that he couldn’t account for, but after a week he had begun to wonder if he was going to be spending the rest of his days -- whatever that meant, for a ghost -- haunting a house and the people in it whom he loved. 

Then Cross had called a house meeting and gathered them all in the kitchen -- with Martin skulking by the fridge, annoyed that his leaning against his caused him to sink into it and make its motor splutter, but only sometimes -- and laid out the paperwork for their rent agreement. 

“We need another housemate,” Cross had said. “And… soon. None of us make that much money, and with Martin--” he choked, taking a deep breath as Gripps patted his shoulder, and continued, “we’re not gonna be able to make the payments  _ and _ eat if we don’t have additional income. And I dunno if any of us can realistically take on more work.” 

“You’re right,” said Gripps, as Vogel groaned, the younger man slumping against the kitchen island. “It’s… it’s real soon, but you’re right.” 

“I don’t want to replace Martin,” said Vogel, and Cross’s eyes widened. 

“No, never,” he said, moving around the island to pull Vogel into a hug. “We would  _ never _ replace him.” 

“We can clear out the spare rooms down here,” said Gripps. “Convert them into bedrooms, maybe? Clean up the living room and the kitchen as shared spaces?” 

“Finally paint the living room a single shade of colour?” said Vogel hopefully, and all three of them -- four, including Martin in the corner -- grimaced at the reminder of the splotchy painted walls. “And you  _ promise _ they won’t replace Martin?” 

“No one ever could,” said Cross quietly, and Gripps hugged them both, the three of them huddled together and quiet for a long moment before breaking apart. “We’ll-- keep his room shut for now. Alright?” 

“I guess,” said Vogel, and that had been that. Gripps had put together a listing, and they had waited, with growing concern, until an unfamiliar number rang them with a question about the house. 

Then the two women had arrived, bright and vibrant and so full of  _ life, _ and that had been that. 

 

\-- 

 

Martin leaned against the door, lighting a cigarette as he watched Cross putter around the garage, moving various boxes of the supplies and other assorted crap the four of them had compiled over the years, muttering under his breath and swearing loudly in Spanish when he stubbed his toe on a car jack half-hidden by another overflowing box of cleaning supplies. “This is ridiculous,” muttered Cross, shoving the box to the side and moving the jack next to the wall. “Who  _ needs _ this much stuff? We aren’t mechanics!” He paused, grimaced, and muttered, “Not anymore.” He paused, looking at the van sitting silent on his left, and sighed. “This is shit.” 

“You ain’t wrong,” said Martin, but Cross just sighed again and bent down to pick up another box. Martin stepped around him, wincing when his hip went through the corner of one of the boxes Cross had precariously stacked, and stopped by the van. He reached out tentatively, his hand hovering above the spray-painted, underlined  _ RUN _ on the driver’s side door. 

“You’re bein’ stupid,” he whispered to himself, but it didn’t help the uncomfortable roiling of his stomach. So what if he had just gone through a box? Didn’t mean he couldn’t touch the side of his own van. 

He couldn’t. 

His fingers sank through the paint and metal, and he yanked his hand back with a sharp inhale. Cross tossed another box behind the van, muttering under his breath, and Martin stepped back, looking down at his shaking hands. The floor was visible, somehow, through skin and bone and flesh that wasn’t  _ there, _ and he couldn’t catch his breath. 

Couldn’t think, couldn’t  _ breathe, _ a high-pitched, fast-paced beeping noise wailing in his ears--

 

\--

 

“What is  _ that?” _ said Cross, shoving his face up against the window glass, rolling his shoulders when he felt a weird brush of cold -- Martin jerked himself sideways, out of Cross’s side, and turned to look as well. “Is that a  _ piano?” _

Gripps paused at the stairs, a plate with a grilled cheese balanced on one hand and textbook tucked under his other arm. “A piano?” he said, and Martin let out a low whistle as Gripps joined them at the window to watch the moving van people heave a grand piano, wrapped in packaging material but still clear a huge piano, onto the sidewalk. 

“Oh, damn, the umbrella stand,” said Cross, and ran for the door, moving the stand in question -- nearly upending its contents of umbrellas and walking sticks and a croquet mallet that had never been returned to the rest of the set -- and Gripps set his book and sandwich onto the coffee table so he could help Cross move the wooden table they threw their keys and the mail on. 

“Where is it going to go?” said Gripps, and Cross smiled weakly. 

“Hey, guys,” said Amanda, flying through the door, hair loose and jacket unzipped. She paused midstep as they froze, still balancing the table between them, and frowned. “You  _ did _ say the piano was okay, right?” she said, hesitating, and the two men both nodded emphatically. 

“Of course,” said Gripps, as Cross said, “Totally,” and they both glanced at each other quickly before saying in unison, “Of course, totally.” 

“You don’t remember me asking, do you,” she said, and they both slowly shook their heads, smiling sheepishly. “You did say yes, and I’m gonna hold you to that, because I can’t exactly ask these guys to pack it back up again.” 

“Is it gonna fit through the door?” said Gripps, and Amanda shrugged. 

“If it doesn’t, I’ll owe you a door,” she said. “You guys have a chainsaw, right?” She was moving down the hall before either of them could answer, and Gripps stared after her for a long moment before turning to Cross. 

“I  _ like _ her,” he said, and Cross cracked a smile. Gripps narrowed his eyes at him for a moment, then said, “Are you wearing Martin’s shirt?” 

Cross’s eyes widened, and he looked down at himself. Martin leaned around Gripps so he could see, and raised his eyebrow, unseen. 

“That’s my shirt, asshole,” said Martin, unheard, and Cross shrugged, smoothing down the front of the worn band shirt. Martin didn’t wear many, and that was one of his favorites -- from when he and Cross had driven out to Los Angeles to see Deap Vally in concert, and Cross had gotten him the shirt when an enthusiastic, very inebriated fan had dumped beer all over Martin. That the inebriated fan happened to have been Cross was of little consequence -- it was still one of Martin’s favorite shirts. 

“Must’ve gotten mixed in with my laundry,” said Cross, and pointed at Vogel, who was rushing by with the vacuum cleaner. “And isn’t that Martin’s shirt, too?” 

“You little  _ shit,” _ said Martin, because Vogel had snitched one of his button down shirts. He glared at Gripps. “You’d probably steal my shirts, too, if they fit you,  _ wouldn’t you?” _ Then his eyes widened. “You  _ thief!  _ That’s--” 

“Martin’s necklace?” said Cross, tapping a finger against Gripps’ chest. 

“Didn’t want it to get misplaced at the hospital,” said Gripps, and Cross smiled just a little, bittersweet, and bumped his shoulder against Gripps’. 

“Yeah,” he said, “I get it.” He took a deep breath, and Martin looked away. “Let’s help these ladies move in, huh?” 

 

\--

 

“Hey, Bee, you in here?” called Amanda, hours later, once the guys had stopped hovering nearby in attempts to be helpful and she and Bee had had a chance to start unpacking for real. There was no answer, so she rapped her knuckles against the door, a little louder after a moment of silence. She took the muffled, unintelligible response as an invitation to come in and pushed the door open, poking her head inside. 

“Hey,” said Bee, waving a hand toward the bed absently. “There’s space for you to sit, if you want.” The red-haired woman was sitting cross-legged on the patterned throw rug, paint swatches spread out on the floor in an arc around her. “What’s up?”

“Just seeing how you’re settling in,” said Amanda, and climbed onto the bed, pushing aside a box of fairy lights so she could sprawl on the bedspread. “So… what d’you think of these guys?” 

“They seem nice,” said Bee, holding up a swatch of blue next to a bright green. “You know. Not axe-murder-y or anything.” 

“They’re kind of weird,” said Amanda. “Not crossing axe-murder-y off the list just yet. Didn't a girl go missing near here recently?”

“I checked the basement,” Bee said. “Wasn't them, I don't think.”

She saw Bee pause for a moment, and she smirked, unseen by Bee. “They're kind of weird but nice, right?” 

“Really weird. But nice.”

“And kinda  _ cute,  _ right?” 

Bee twisted to face her, and narrowed her eyes to find Amanda propped up on her elbows and waggling her eyebrows at her. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?” she said, and Amanda laughed as Bee let out a sigh. “Yeah, maybe. I guess.” A small smile tugged at her lips, and Amanda laughed harder. Bee glared briefly at her before spinning around on her butt to return to her paint swatches. 

Amanda scooted forward on the bed, resting her chin on her hands, eyes sparkling. “So… Cross, huh?” 

Bee spun around, raising an accusatory finger. “I  _ will _ hex you,” she said, and Amanda mock-pouted. 

“Hey! You promised you’d only hex guys who act like assholes!” 

Bee huffed. “I never said there couldn’t be exceptions for bratty best friends,” she said. “But he  _ is _ pretty cute.” She glanced at the door, still open a crack, and got up to close it. “But…”

“But what?” said Amanda, as Bee sat back down on the floor, this time facing Amanda on the bed. “Something wrong?” 

“Not wrong, just…” Bee shrugged. “Do they seem okay to you?” 

“Okay how?” 

“They seem… kind of sad,” said Bee. “Really sad. Like a part of them is missing.” 

Amanda considered it for a moment. “Yeah, you’re right,” she said. “Maybe it has to do with that empty room, you think? The one upstairs? It was… Martha’s? Max’s? Some ‘m’ name, anyway. Maybe they’re sad since whoever it was is gone.” Then she shrugged. “Maybe we’re thinking too hard about it,” she said. “You know? We hardly know these guys.” 

“I’d like to,” said Bee, and her cheeks flamed red at Amanda’s muttered  _ I’ll bet you do. _ “You’re  _ not _ funny,” she said. “Did you notice there aren’t any photos on the walls?” 

“Smooth,” muttered Amanda, but let her friend change the subject. There could always be more teasing later, after all. “Yeah, it seemed a little weird. Maybe they’re just not into photos? Some people are like that.”

“Weird people are like that,” said Bee. “Homes have photos. It’s a rule.” 

“You’re weird,” said Amanda, and ducked to avoid the paint swatch that Bee threw at her. “Hey, those have sharp edges!” She picked up the fallen swatch and squinted at it, then the wall. “This is a nice colour. What are you planning?” 

Bee held out her hand and Amanda tossed her the swatch. “That’s a nice green,” she said absently. “Something earthy, definitely. A garden. You saw the garden out back, right? There are so many beautiful flowers.” 

“The other guy plants things there, I think?” said Amanda. “The third roommate.” 

“I haven’t seen much of him since we started moving things in,” said Bee. “He seemed nice. And anyone with a flower garden that well maintained  _ has _ to be nice.” Amanda snorted. “Don’t laugh. Have you ever met anyone mean who had such pretty flowers?” 

“Yeah, my aunt Esther,” said Amanda. “Battiest lady I ever met, and she  _ always _ pinched my cheeks.” She rolled over, her booted feet bumping against a box of painting supplies. “A flower garden painting will be super pretty on the wall, especially with the light from the window.”

“I could paint something for you, too,” said Bee, and Amanda nearly fell off the bed with the speed at which she rolled over. 

“Are you serious?” she said. “I’d love you forever.” 

“You will anyway,” said Bee, “so that’s not saying much. Just let me know what you want for a subject and we can work on some sketches together, yeah?” 

“I love you,” said Amanda, and flopped back onto the bed. “Oh, God. I’ll be surrounded by gorgeous art  _ and _ gorgeous people. That may just be too  _ much.” _

“You’ll survive,” said Bee. “Pass me that notebook, will you?” 

 

\--

 

“Hey,” said Bee, and Vogel looked up from his book -- some enormous tome that was a little intimidating in size; from what Bee could see of the interior it was a graphic novel, although she had never seen such a huge one before. “Um, I was just wondering. Why aren’t there any photos up anywhere? Amanda and I were going to ask if it was alright for us to put some up, but then we saw that there… aren’t any.” She trailed off when he just stared at her, and she shoved her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. “It’s, um, fine if you don’t want to--”

“Oh, you mean like pictures of us?” said Vogel, and she nodded, face red, and he closed his book, eyes searching hers. “Sorry, I was just really deep in the story, sometimes it’s hard to get out of, you know? Uh. Photos. Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” she said. “I didn’t see any…” 

“Cross took them down,” said Vogel, and her eyes widened. “After Martin’s accident. He, um. They were  _ best _ friends, and Cross hasn’t been handling everything very well.” Vogel looked away. “To be honest, none of us have.” Then he smiled, a little strained, but it was there. “Don’t worry about it. If you want to put up photos, go for it! Nobody’ll mind, promise.” 

“If you’re sure… thanks!” Bee smiled at him, spinning to leave, and Vogel went back to his book. 

He read for a while, foot tapping absently on the floor, and a bit after began shifting restlessly in his seat, brow furrowing until he slammed the book shut with a mutter. “Fuck,” he said, slightly louder, and Martin blinked at him, startled into awareness. 

“Vogel…?” he said, and winced when the younger man didn’t respond, when he remembered that he wouldn’t be heard, anyway. Vogel got up, dropping the book with a solid  _ thud _ onto the coffee table, and ran up the stairs, still muttering under his breath. 

Martin hesitated, then followed him. 

There was something chaotic about Vogel’s room, something untamed and wild that Martin had never been able to put his finger on, and he rarely entered the room at all. It was  _ Vogel’s _ space, and of the four of them, the youngest of them had the messiest habits. It wasn’t  _ intentional, _ Martin knew, but it was still disorienting for him to be faced with the endless stacks of books and papers that seemed perfectly searchable by Vogel and completely incomprehensible to anyone else -- not to mention the piles of dirty clothes that Vogel would routinely leave lying around until he ran out of socks, or underwear, whichever came first. Messy, wild, untamed -- all words that would easily describe Vogel, he realized. 

Vogel himself was half under his bed, his butt in the air and muffled cursing drifting out from underneath the bedframe. A moment later he reemerged, dragging a cardboard box with him and hauling it backwards until he could sit fully on the floor with his legs spread, socked feet resting on papers that Martin suspected were important school-related documents, with the box between his legs. Vogel wrestled the cover off and set it down, taking a deep breath before pulling out a familiar, large brown book. 

Martin knew that book. Knew every page of it better than the walls of his own childhood home. 

“Fuck,” said Vogel again, flipping open to the first page, and Martin stayed where he was, by Vogel’s laden desk. 

He knew what photos were in there -- Cross had taken almost all of them, with the camera Martin had gotten for him. It had taken him half the summer to squirrel away enough money working two jobs to start saving for college and setting aside enough each month to finally get his hands on the Canon camera at the local camera shop. More specifically, the one on sale -- since the box had cracked and the corner was scraped -- but the shop owner had assured him the camera was still perfectly functional. And it had been worth every penny and every late night shift to see Cross’s eyes light up when he unwrapped the box, a week before Christmas since Cross’s family were going to Spain to visit relatives and Martin wouldn’t see him until after New Years. 

That photo album usually lived in the cabinet under the television, along with the subsequent volumes that were never labeled, just crammed with photos and ticket stubs and fortunes from cookies. What was it doing in Vogel’s room? 

Martin inched closer, careful to avoid stepping on -- or through -- and of the stacks of books, and peeked into the box, glad for once of his inaudibility as he gasped. The box was full of every photo album they had, from what he could see, as well as the few framed photos that usually lined the hall into the kitchen. Distantly, he realized he hadn’t seen them there since he’d woken up… dead. 

A muffled noise drew him back from the faint beeping that was beginning to ring louder in his ears, and he looked at Vogel to find the younger man breathing in a short, hiccupping breath, tears streaming down his face as he flipped through the pages of another photo album, the first set beside him on the floor. 

“You should  _ be _ here,” whispered Vogel, tracing a lopsided circle over a photo with one finger, outlining the four of them hanging off of each other and grinning recklessly at the camera. A camping trip, the first year they had moved into the house, out to a campground near a lake. Martin had forgotten sunscreen for an hour and spent the rest of the trip with a nose red enough to put Rudolph to shame, and Gripps had given him three new aloe plants once they had gotten home. 

“I am here,” whispered Martin, but it was a lie, in a way. He wasn’t  _ there, _ not in the way that Vogel meant, not in the way that Martin wanted, and he couldn’t swallow past the lump in his throat because he knew if he could be there, then none of this would be happening. None of his friends would be wandering the house looking immeasurably sad, or dripping tears onto the plastic sheet covers of the photo album pages, or breaking down in hallways to cry when there was no answer to a closed door. 

This was his fault. 

“I’m sorry.” The words weren’t enough, and Vogel couldn’t hear him, anyway. Martin straightened, swallowing hard and wiping his own eyes, and when he blinked he was standing in the hallway, staring at the wall where the framed photos should have been. There were off-colour squares on the painted walls, and little holes from the nails they had hung from, but the photos were gone. 

He was gone, to them. 

And it fucking  _ sucked. _


	3. In Which there is a Piano, and a Break-in

Amanda glanced at her phone again, rereading the message there from Bee.  _ He seemed kinda down, you know? _ She glanced at the bus, waiting at the stop, then at the pizza place a block over. 

_ I have an idea, _ she texted back, and watched the bus rumble along with a puff of exhaust. She could smell the pizza, and it was almost dinnertime, anyway. 

The bus, once she caught one, was a bit awkward to take home -- and it was weird how quickly she had started considering the house  _ home _ \-- as all her fellow passengers were eyeing the stack of pizzas on her lap with envy. She was pretty sure the guy sitting across from her was actually drooling, and she tried to ignore them all. Her pizza and her were on a  _ mission, _ dammit. 

Free of the bus, Amanda jogged the last few blocks to the house, grateful for how close the bus stop was and somehow managed not to drop the pizzas or her bag as she fought the key into the lock of the front door. “Anybody home?” she called, and was met by silence. Maybe nobody  _ was _ home. 

 

\--

 

_ Martin _ was home, and he heard her -- he’d been reading comics over Vogel’s shoulder for lack of anything better to do -- and he rose to his feet, stretching with a groan and frowning at Vogel, who hadn’t moved from his seat, still glumly flipping through his omnibus of  _ Stuff of Legends. _ “Y’gonna go say hi or what?” he said, but there was no answer, and he sighed. 

“Oh, there you are,” said Amanda, and Martin startled. She was standing in the doorway, balancing a stack of pizza boxes, and he could smell the pepperoni and grilled vegetables even from across the kitchen. “Hey, Vogel. You hungry?” 

Vogel’s head finally lifted from his book, and he managed a smile. “Hi, Manda,” he said, and his eyes brightened when he saw the boxes. “Is that  _ pizza?” _ The younger man was halfway out of his seat before he paused, brow furrowing. “Is it pizza to  _ share?” _

“Nah, I just came to show you,” said Amanda, then laughed at the stricken look on his face. “Of course it’s to share! I heard you liked the veggie combo, is that right?” 

Vogel was out of his chair and across the kitchen before she could blink. “I  _ love _ veggie combo,” he said, fingers hovering over the box, and Amanda grinned, lifting the lid of the top one. Vogel’s eyes widened, and-- yep, Martin could definitely see drool, there. “Can I--” said Vogel, Amanda nodded, and he grabbed a slice, folding it in half and taking a bite, sighing appreciatively. “Th’s ‘s ‘m _ az _ ing, M’nda,” he mumbled, and she grinned. 

“What are you reading?” she said, and Vogel shoved a few of his books out of the way so she could set down the boxes. 

“It’s about toys coming to life and it’s  _ amazing,” _ said Vogel, reaching for a second slice. “Have you read it?” 

Amanda dragged a chair around next to his, and he scooted his chair over so they could sit on the same side of the table. “I haven’t, but it looks super cool,” she said, and Vogel immediately launched into a rundown of the synopsis, pointing out characters as they flipped through the pages together. 

Eventually they moved to the sofa, so Vogel could introduce Amanda to the Netflix Marvel series, after she had shown interest in the collection of  _ Daredevil _ comics, and they sprawled on the sofa with their feet up on the coffee table, shoulder to shoulder, eating pizza and drinking orange soda in amounts that made Martin feel a little ill on their behalf. 

But Vogel was smiling, hands waving wildly as he elaborated on plot points and how they connected to the comics and to the larger connected cinematic universe, and Amanda was nodding and encouraging and actually looked  _ interested  _ in what he had to say. 

Martin watched them for a long time, seated at the other end of the sofa and only half listening to the television. The pizza was nearly gone -- how neither of them hadn’t exploded, he had no idea -- but they were both relaxed, and happy, and Martin looked at Amanda and felt an overwhelming rush of gratitude. 

“Thanks f’r takin’ care of him,” he whispered, and she glanced at him, through him, confusion on her pretty face. Martin blew out a stream of smoke and stubbed his cigarette on the floor, ground under his boot, and it vanished without a trace. He couldn’t help Vogel, but Amanda could. And she had. “Thank you,” he said again. “Thank you.”

 

\--

 

Martin sat at the piano bench. He rested his hands on the keys, the lightest touch, breathing in. He hadn’t played in years, and not extensively since they had sold the foot-pedal organ Gripps had found at a yardsale and repaired, in order to make the down payment on renting the house. 

Martin missed that organ. One of the pedals hadn’t really worked, but it rarely needed tuning and has housed a huge collection of hymnals and songbooks inside a ‘secret’ compartment behind the built-in music stand. The organ had traveled with them from senior year at college all the way through their first two apartments together, and had found a new home with a restorer who had been delighted to pay the asking price despite the disrepair it had fallen in to. 

Martin let out the breath he had been holding and pressed down on the keys, lightly at first, then more firmly. A soft chord rang out and he froze, startled by the success, then played another chord, followed by a procession of notes, until he was filling the quiet afternoon of the house with the opening riff of  _ Everglow _ . 

“Hello?” 

The notes trailed off, and Martin couldn’t breathe for an instant, until he convinced himself the tightness in his chest was all in his head, and he didn’t need to breathe, anyway. He turned his head, seeing Amanda standing in the doorway of the room with one earbud in and another held in her hand. 

“Is anybody there?” she said, stepping into the room, and Martin stood, sliding through the piano bench in his haste to get out of her way -- she looked around a bit before sitting down at the bench, removing her other earbud and letting them fall, the little plastic buds clattering when they hit the hardwood floor. 

“Just me,” said Martin, but she didn’t hear him, her fingers drifting over the keyboard. 

“Could’ve sworn I closed this,” she murmured, brushing her hand over the edge of the open fallboard, and spread her hands over the keys. “What did I hear…?” She played a chord, then another, shaking her head and muttering to herself when they weren’t quite the right key, and Martin hesitantly sat on the edge of the piano next to her. 

_“Oh,”_ said Amanda, and moved her hands again, pressing down on the chords and sliding a procession of notes that perfectly matched Martin’s earlier playing. He looked sideways at her, and saw her eyes slip shut as she swayed gently on the bench. Then she opened her mouth, and _sang._ _“Well, they say that people come, they say people go…”_ Martin couldn’t look away, her low voice taking him by surprise. 

She sounded like an angel. 

He shook himself, lost in her voice, and focused on the words as she sang.  _ “And you might be gone, and the world may not know…Still I see you, celestial.”  _

Martin shivered. “Can you?” he whispered, but her eyes were still shut, and she didn’t seem to hear him, her fingers dancing over the keys as she started into the chorus. The notes she was playing were higher, to fit the range of her voice, and he reached up, fingers hovering over the lower keys, and found himself playing the bass accompaniment, humming softly until he realized he was singing with her, their voices overlapping in a ghostly duet. 

_ And I should but I can't let you go _

_ But when I'm cold, I'm cold _

_ Yeah, when I'm cold _

_ Cold _

_ There’s a light that you give me when I’m in shadow _

_ There’s a feeling within me, an everglow _

Amanda paused at the end of the chorus, her eyes fluttering open as her mouth fell open, her head whipping around to face him. For a moment she was looking straight into his eyes, and Martin’s heart leapt into his throat. 

“Who’s there?” she said, swinging her legs over the bench, her shins slicing through his stomach and he leapt off the bench as she stood, rubbing his belly and cursing at the strange sensation of her passing through him. Amanda spun, eyes searching the room, and she frowned, reaching down to snatch up her dangling earbuds. “What the fuck,” she muttered, and closed the piano fallboard before stomping from the room. 

Martin let out a sigh, casting a mournful look at the closed piano, and wandered after her, so preoccupied he didn’t notice the fallboard flying open on its own accord. 

Had she… heard him? 

 

\--

 

The front door closed, and Amanda looked up from her book from where she was curled up on the sofa -- Gripps strode by, heading for the kitchen, his beanie pulled low on his head and his shoulders hunched. 

“Hey, roomie,” she called, and he paused, eyes widening when he saw her peeking over the back of the sofa. 

“Hey, Amanda,” he said, “didn’t see you there. How are you?” 

“Just fine,” she said, “how are you?” 

“Fine.” 

“Hey,” said Amanda, as he turned to continue on his way, and he paused again. “Do you… ever hear people singing?” 

Gripps tilted his head, his gaze growing thoughtful. “In general or when listening to music?” he said, and Amanda chucked a sofa pillow at him -- she missed, and he was smiling when she looked at him again. “Why do you ask?” 

“Just curious,” she said, and smiled weakly when he raised an eyebrow at her. “I thought I heard someone singing with me earlier, when I was practicing piano, but no one was there. It sounded so  _ real.  _ Like some guy was sitting right next to me, playing too.” 

“Did you, by any chance,” said Gripps slowly, crouching down to pick up the pillow she had thrown, “bring a  _ haunted _ piano into our house?” 

Amanda gaped at him, and reached for another pillow. Gripps straightened, holding the pillow up as a shield, and she narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m serious,” she said. “Are you sure your  _ house _ isn’t haunted?” 

He shrugged. “It could be,” he said. “But. We’ve lived here for over a year, and if there is a ghost? They only seem to be haunting  _ you.” _ He tossed the pillow back and smiled when she caught it, waving once before wandering toward the kitchen. “You want dinner?” she heard him call, and she sighed, sinking back into the cushions and hugging the pillows to her chest. 

“Is it veggie?” she called back, and grinned at the muted but still horrified  _ of course! _ that reached her ears. 

Maybe it  _ was _ all in her head. 

But that voice… It had seemed too real to be imaginary. 

“I’m not crazy,” she muttered, and opened her book again. 

 

\--

 

The door knob rattling had woken Martin from his doze -- out of the haze of sharp chemical smells and that incessant beeping -- and he had found himself by the front door. A glance at his watch told him it was too early for any of his housemates to return home -- and he tried not to think too hard on how his watch continued working despite being as unreal as the rest of him -- and he frowned as the door knob continued to rattle. Was one of them home early… drunk? Couldn’t get their key in the lock? 

The door opened, creaking open slowly, and Martin stepped back, the cigarette falling from his open mouth, disappearing when it reached the floor. 

“Th’  _ fuck _ are you doin’ here?” said Martin, taking another step back, his hands curling into fists. “Who th’ fuck are  _ you?” _

The man with the sandy blonde hair ignored him, sharp blue eyes darting past him --  _ through _ him -- around the living room and glancing up the stairs before he strode into the house, the door swinging not-quite shut behind him. His heavy boots were surprisingly quiet on the hardwood floors, and were silent on the rug in the living room as he stood in front of the television, which someone had forgotten to turn off.

_ \--police say the car that was involved in a hit and run earlier this week may be connected to the case of the missing Lydia-- _

The man cursed and turned off the tv. 

“What, you a thief?” said Martin, lighting a cigarette and squinting at the man, who didn’t appear to hear him. The stranger muttered something under his breath that Martin didn’t catch, sifting through the stacks of video game cases Vogel had left stacked on the tv stand. “Y’ain’t supposed to be here, man.” 

The stranger pushed the games back into the disorganized stack they had been in and headed for the kitchen, sidestepping the sofa with predatory grace. 

Martin followed him, smoking his ethereal cigarette furiously, until the man stopped in the hall. One pale hand reached up to stroke the frame of a photograph on the wall, a candid photo of Amanda laughing while a man with the same dark hair as hers looked miffed with ice cream dripping down his face, and it felt like an icy finger sliding down Martin’s spine. 

This man was bonzo bad news, and Martin wanted him  _ out _ . The stranger wasn’t meant to be there, was intruding on their space, and Martin didn’t want him anywhere near his friends or their stuff. 

Thank whatever higher power was watching that all of them were out. And safe.

But this asshat had to  _ go. _

The stranger abandoned the photos and Martin followed him into the kitchen, seething silently as the man poked through the cupboards without any clear aim. “Ain’t gonna find nothin’ but food in there,” grumbled Martin, just to the man’s left, and shivered when the stranger shifted and his shoulder sank into Martin’s. 

Martin  _ moved, _ finding himself across the kitchen when he breathed in again, a full-body shudder running through him. The stranger felt… wrong.  _ Bad. _ Like the dry feeling of waking up after forgetting to brush his teeth after a day of not drinking enough water. Bad. 

“What  _ are _ you?” he said, the words coming out a low growl, and he jerked himself sideways to avoid the stranger stepping through him again. 

The stranger moved past him to check the door, tugging lightly on the screen door handle to check the springs before turning to face him, and for an instant Martin thought the stranger saw him. But the man’s sharp eyes darted past him, and the stranger went back into the hall, pausing to glance at the framed pictures again before continuing. 

“You fucker, get the hell out,” muttered Martin, scattering ash from his cigarette as he raced after the stranger, who turned into the other hall. The man paused by Amanda’s bedroom, and Martin felt a snarl building, low in his throat. 

“Don’ you fuckin’ dare,” he growled, fingers curling into fists at his sides, and the stranger rested a hand on the door knob of Amanda’s room. 

The hall light flickered, and a book fell from the shelf of the bookcase Vogel had insisted was necessary for the hallway, startling the stranger. Martin unclenched his fists, breathing heavily through his nose, and when the man began walking again, a lamp slid off its table as if yanked by the cord and crashed to the floor. 

“What the fuck,” whispered the man, his words a soft Southern drawl, and Martin froze, thrown back to his childhood days for an uncomfortable moment, and by the time he had shaken the memories of warm sunlight and harsh words, the man was moving again. 

“Oh, no, you don’t,” growled Martin. The lights were flickering in time with his racing heart, and the man had pulled out a gun. A  _ gun.  _ The sight of the slim black weapon turned Martin’s vision red, and the apartment trembled. 

Curtains shook. Books flew from the shelves. Cushions lifted from the sofa and hurled themselves at the walls. The man threw himself flat on the ground and Martin let loose a howl that sent the man scrabbling in a frantic army crawl toward the door as items sailed through the air in wild arcs. 

Yellow spots flared at the corners of his vision and something was telling him this was  _ bad bad bad _ but Martin couldn’t stop, couldn’t hold back the force of his anger that swept through the house. There was a ringing in his ears and his mouth was dry, and the impossible windstorm inside the house  _ roared _ . 

Then the man was gone, and Martin could breathe again -- not that he  _ needed _ to breathe, being dead and all -- and the house settled around him, creaking and groaning as it usually did without ghostly meddling. 

Martin moved to the window and peered out, puffing calmly on his cigarette as he watched the man climb into a black SUV and drive away with noticeable haste. He scrawled the license plate number on the pad of paper by the phone, and only when he was in the middle of tidying up the mess he had made did he realize that he had picked up the pencil. Martin nearly swallowed his cigarette with how sharply he inhaled, the sofa cushion he was holding dropping through his hands to the floor, and he sank onto the sofa, not quite settled on the cushions but not quite through them, either. 

“What the fuck,” he whispered, echoing the intruder’s earlier words, and passed out. 

 

\--

 

When he was conscious again, it was late afternoon, and he could hear someone crying. It was a soft sound, muffled, the kind that sounded like it was echoing through water while the listener drifted at the bottom of a lake, one that he knew wasn’t actually real but still had him drifting aimlessly through the house until he was certain there was no one there. It was another hour before he was jolted into some semblance of alertness, when a key turned in the lock and the door opened, admitting a laughing Amanda, who told whomever was on the other end of her phone call that she had made it home and needed to get started on dinner. Hardly had she ended the call and closed the door again, however, when she froze, her eyes widening as she took in the destruction of the living room -- Martin hadn’t been able to lift anymore of the items strewn around the room after he had awoken, to his dismay, and the mess had had to sit, mocking him with its disorder. 

“Holy shit,” she whispered, yanking her phone out of her pocket again and dialing a number with dizzying speed. “Cross,” she said, when a tinny voice answered, “someone broke into the house.” 

Martin sat by the window and smoked while Amanda paced, her boots squeaking on the hardwood floor. The last rays of the afternoon sun soaked through him and he let out a sigh, comfortably warm, and her head shot up, her gaze burning into his, and Martin dropped his cigarette in surprise. 

“Who the fuck are you?” she said, and Martin stared at her. 

“Can you see me?” he said, but her gaze was slipping away, searching frantically before she was clutching at her phone again. 

“Hey, jerkface, hurry up,” she said. “You never mentioned that this place is fucking  _ haunted.” _


	4. In Which they Clean Up and there is a Lot of Crying

Amanda was waiting outside when Cross’s car finally pulled into the driveway -- a tiny little beat-up clunker that he swore would run forever but Amanda had suspicions that it wouldn’t last til the end of the month -- and she rose from her seat on the porch swing to meet him on the stairs. 

“Are you okay?” he said, wrapping her into a hug before she could even begin to reply. He was wearing a flannel and a hoodie, and he was ridiculously warm against her chilled body. “Jesus, you’re freezing. Did you call the police?” 

“No,” said Amanda, muffled from where her face was pressed into his chest. Cross let her go enough so she could breathe, but kept a steadying grip on her arms, which she was grateful for. “I don’t think they took anything, it was just… a huge mess. And I  _ saw a ghost.”  _

“A ghost?” said Cross, and she glowered at his skeptical expression. “Hey, I’m not saying you made it up. But have you seen ghosts before?”

“Fuck, no,” said Amanda. “And I’m assuming none of  _ you _ saw him, either, otherwise you would’ve put ‘haunted house’ in the property listing.” 

“A  _ him?” _ said Cross, then shook his head. “How ‘bout you tell me exactly what happened and what you saw,” he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and nudging her toward the door. “It’s fucking cold out here.” 

“I  _ think _ it was a he, anyway,” said Amanda, closing the door behind them as Cross cursed, seeing the mess in the living room. “I haven’t gone upstairs or in our rooms, but the kitchen was fine. The ghost was, uh, by the window. Sort of just a shape? Cloudy? Like smoke, and he was only there for a moment.” 

“It  _ is _ a pretty old house,” said Cross, poking at a fallen couch cushion with the toe of his boot. “It could very well be haunted -- I don’t know much about the provenance of the house. Gripps might know, he’s real into that history stuff.” He shook his head. “We should call the police, just in case.” 

Amanda stared at him, and for a brief moment it felt like the time when Todd had poured cold water down the back of her shirt, complete with ice cubes. “You mean whoever broke in could still be in the house?” she whispered, and Cross’s eyes went wide. 

“Shit, maybe,” he said, and pulled out his phone, moving with long strides toward the door. “C’mon, might be a better idea to wait in the car.” 

\--

 

Martin watched by the window as two policemen went through the house, methodically checking each room with their guns drawn until they deemed it safe. Only then did they return to where Cross and Amanda were waiting, joined by Gripps, Vogel, and Bee, who had arrived shortly after the police, and the group conferred for a while before the cops got into their car and left. Martin tapped out another cigarette -- the case always seemed to be half full, no matter how many he smoked, nor did they really give him the rush that nicotine usually did -- and lit it as the housemates came inside. 

“What a mess,” said Gripps, surveying the room as the rest of the group spread out, the women heading toward their rooms and Cross taking the stairs two at a time. Vogel groaned, darting across the room to inspect the bookcase. One of the shelves had broken, and most of the books were still spread across the floor, and Martin winced with guilt as Vogel carefully extracted one of the books from the strewn mess. 

_ “Dracula _ has been staked,” he said, holding up the book, and Gripps shook his head at the sight of the torn spine. “Who could hate books that much?” 

“Doesn’t look like anything’s been taken,” said Amanda, re-emerging from her room. “And it’s just the living room so far that’s trashed.” 

“Nothing up here,” said Cross, joining them in their huddle by the books as Bee came back from her room. “Anybody see anything missing, or out of place?” 

“Nothing besides this mess,” said Gripps. “Seems a little strange, doesn’t it?” 

“Maybe it was the ghost,” said Cross, and raised his hands to placate Amanda when she glared at him. “No, no, I mean it. Aren’t there ghosts that can move stuff, and shit? Angry ghosts?” 

“Poltergeists?” said Bee, and Cross nodded. 

“Yeah, those,” he said. “Ghosts that can move stuff. Do you think the ghost you saw might have done this?” 

“Does the ghost not like the new wall colour?” said Vogel, face twisting, the torn copy of  _ Dracula _ clutched to his chest. “Is that why they made a mess?” 

“He didn’t  _ seem _ angry,” said Amanda, shoving her hands into her pockets. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s mad that me an’ Bee are here.” 

“Aww, Manda, no way,” said Cross. “Any ghost who didn’t like you two has to be the worst ghost ever.” 

Martin drifted for a bit, letting the conversation wash over him as the five wandered through the house, putting it to rights. There was an incessant beeping noise fading in and out, steady as a heartbeat, but the more he focused on it the more exhausted he felt, so he pushed it aside, startled back to the present by Cross’s sharp inhale. He turned, and saw his friend standing close to him, holding a familiar notepad. 

“What is this?” said Cross, and there was something tremulous in his voice, just close enough to breaking that it broke Martin’s heart. Gripps and Vogel were at Cross’s side in an instant, Amanda and Bee crowding in close behind, and the taller man tilted the notepad so they could see.

“What’s what?” said Vogel, peering around Cross’s arm so he could see the notepad in the taller man’s hand. “Whose handwriting is that? ‘Cause I used this yesterday and that’s the top note.” 

Cross had a pinched look to his face as he scanned the short line of numbers and letters, and said quietly, “Are you sure?” 

“Yeah,” said Vogel, and tapped the bottom corner of the notepad. “See, you can see where I pressed too hard with the pen. I did that _yesterday,_ man. Gripps’ sisters called and they were giving me good advice but I can’t write as fast as they talk.” He searched Cross’s face, then added, “It looks like--”   
“I know,” said Cross, bumping his shoulder against Vogel’s. “But it ain’t. That’s impossible.” 

“Yeah, you’re right,” said Vogel, his face falling. Cross slung an arm over his shoulders and pulled him in for a one-armed hug, still frowning at the notepad. 

“Still, gotta wonder what this is,” he said. “Looks like a license plate number, maybe.” 

“D’you think the intruder wrote that?” said Vogel, and Cross shrugged. 

“Can’t know for sure,” he said. “And we’ve all touched it, so fingerprints are probably out--”

“You read too many mystery novels,” said Gripps. 

“And watch too much crime tv,” said Vogel. 

“The cops are cute,” muttered Cross, and put the notepad back by the phone. “I’ll ask the neighbors tomorrow if they happened to see anything suspicious.” 

“Like a vehicle with that license plate?” said Gripps, and Cross raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Not a bad idea,” he said, and Gripps sighed. “For now, though,” said Cross, “I’m just grateful no one was here and got hurt.” 

“We could’ve whooped whoever’s ass it was if we had been,” said Vogel, and Cross laughed. 

“Sure thing,” he said. “Nothing scarier than all of us together, right?” 

“Right,” said Vogel, and wiggled out from under Cross’s arm. “Sweet books, I’m coming for you! No more lying on the floor for you!” 

“What a mess,” said Gripps, shaking his head. “Want to make dinner? We can handle this.” 

“That’d be great,” said Cross, glancing at the notepad once more. “Curry okay for tonight?” 

“Lots of rice!” called Vogel from across the rooms, his arms full of the books he had gathered. “He makes the  _ best _ curry,” he informed Bee as she helped him collect the rest of the scattered volumes. “I could eat it for a week and not get tired of it.” 

“Be careful what you wish for,” said Cross, heading for the kitchen. 

Gripps shook his head and turned to Amanda. “There’s  _ never _ any leftovers,” he said. “Would y’mind helping me with the sofa? It’s all out of whack.” 

“No problem,” said Amanda. “Lucky there wasn’t all that much damage. This thing isn’t even cracked.” She nudged the coffee table with the toe of her boot, and glanced at Cross’s retreating back. 

“Yeah,” said Gripps, and when she looked at him, his eyes were sad. “Lucky.” 

 

\--

 

The only lights on in the shared downstairs space was in the kitchen, and Martin had gravitated there out of habit after everyone had cleared out after dinner -- Vogel had volunteered to take Gripps’s dish duty, when his friend had mentioned having a lot of grading for his classes to do -- and Cross had lingered after the younger man had finished drying everything, insisting that he could put away the ingredients that hadn’t quite made it back to their cupboards. It was quiet, and dim with only the single overhead light bulb. 

Cross had his hands braced against the counter, head bowed and shoulders hunched, and Martin heard him let out a heavy sigh before the taller man straightened, running his hands through his hair before stacking the spices neatly back onto the rack. Martin fumed, noting every spice that was put back out of order -- he had a  _ system,  _ dammit -- and lit another cigarette. He breathed out a waft of smoke, and Cross paused, his hand on the container of coriander. 

“It’s all in your head,” muttered Cross, and shoved the coriander into the rack next to the turmeric -- Martin winced as the rack shuddered under the force of his hand. “It’s all in your head, Cross. He ain’t here.” 

Martin heard a soft sound and turned his head, spotting a flash of bright orange by the doorway. Bee stood there, hesitating on the threshold, and a quick glance at Cross showed his friend to be leaning against the counter again, one hand balled into a fist. 

“He ain’t here,” Cross whispered again, his voice breaking, and Bee backed out of the doorway, silent in her rainbow-socked feet. Martin watched her leave, then swiveled back as Cross straightened and tugged on his hair -- an anxious habit Martin remembered from their college years that he had seen rarely in recent times -- and methodically cleaned up the rest of the kitchen from his cooking mess. Cross paused after wiping down the counters, opening the fridge to peer in, the interior lightbulb casting a yellowy glow over his skin, and he sighed once before slamming it shut and leaving, his heavy footsteps audible all the way up the stairs to the creak of his bedroom door shutting. 

Martin let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding and leaned against the kitchen island, a huff of laughter escaping him when he didn’t sink through it. The laughter died in moments, though, as he recalled the devastation on his friend’s face. 

A noise made him look up, and he saw Bee peek into the kitchen, stepping in only once she was sure the coast was clear -- aside from the invisible Martin, who stepped out of her way as she made for the cupboards. 

What followed was a mad frenzy of baking and furtive glances at the door. Bee seemed to be worried that someone would walk in, and Martin found himself leaning against the doorframe and keeping half an ear out for potential incoming distractions -- disregarding the fact that there was little chance he could warn her, anyway. Half an hour later, she was pulling cupcakes out of the oven and leaving them on a rack to cool, the ingredients for cream cheese frosting spread out over the kitchen island. 

Bee was muttering to herself, poking through the cupboards, and Martin lit a cigarette as she pulled a cardboard box from the depths of one cupboard with a victorious  _ aha! _ Martin narrowed his eyes as she poured Vogel’s Fruit Loops into a bowl and began picking out handfuls of the orange and green ones, piling them up in two brightly coloured lumps until there were more on the counter than in the bowl before she dumped the other colours back into the box. 

The sorted colours went into a sandwich bag for each, which she set on the counter before pressing down on them with a gleeful expression, and Martin groaned at the horrible crunching sound it made as she crushed the pieces of cereal into smaller pieces. 

“Crap,” she whispered, abandoning the baggies of crushed cereal to poke at the cupcakes, muttering under her breath something that sounded curiously like  _ too damn hot just like he is _ and picked up the entire cooling rack of cupcakes and shoved it into the fridge freezer, balanced precariously on Cross’s Eggos and Amanda’s Ben & Jerry’s. Bee closed the freezer and went back to her frosting, humming to herself as she mixed everything together and cleaned up until there was only a wide plastic container left open -- presumably for the cupcakes to go into -- and another plastic baggie with the tip of one corner cut off loaded with frosting, the crushed Froot Loops set in two little bowls next to it. 

“Cupcakes, gotta make some cupcakes,” she sang, the words soft and to some tune that sounded just familiar enough that Martin couldn’t quite put his finger on, besides knowing that those weren’t the original lyrics she was singing. He hummed along in an absent-minded way as she pulled the cooled cupcakes from the freezer and set about squeezing a generous amount of creamy frosting onto each one, still singing nonsense, until each cupcake was frosted. 

Then she rolled the edges of the frosting in the crushed Froot Loops, one side in green and the other in orange, and as much as the idea of eating Froot Loops on a cupcake made Martin feel queasy -- to him, cereal belonged in a bowl with milk, and that was that -- he had to admit that the finished cupcakes looked cheerful and cute with the colours. 

Into the container went the cupcakes, the frosted tops just barely grazing the lid she gently pressed down, and Martin followed her silently down the hall and up the stairs, standing next to her in front of Cross’s door. 

“Whatcha doin’?” he said softly, and she took a deep breath, lifting her chin and knocking swiftly on the door. Bee stepped back, biting her lip, and Martin heard the familiar  _ thump _ that signaled Cross rolling off of his bed. The door opened, Cross backlit by the lamp by his bed, across the room -- the dim light did little to hide the redness of his eyes. 

“Bee?” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “Everything alright?” 

“Um,” she said, and shoved the container into his chest -- Cross grabbed it on reflex, saving it from crashing to the floor, his eyebrows creeping toward his hairline. 

“What’s this?” he said, lifting the corner of the lid, his eyes widening when he saw the contents. 

“For you,” said Bee, and spun around, her long hair whipping out in an arc that brushed through Martin’s shoulder as she rushed toward the stairs before Cross could do more than open his mouth. 

“Thanks?” he called after her, before prying the lid further up so he could lift out one of the cupcakes, peeling back the wrapper before taking a huge bite, his eyes closing in bliss as he let out a pleased groan. “Carrot cake,” he muttered through the cake, and Martin wrinkled his nose at the crumbs that scattered to the floor. Cross finished the first cupcake and pulled out another, backing into his room and closing the door in Martin’s face. 

Martin stood there for a while, chest aching, before he drifted down the hall in search of the strange orange-haired woman who had cheered Cross with carrot cake cupcakes. 

“Those are his favorite, you know,” he said to her, as she lifted a jacket from the coat hooks with something dark tucked under her arm and opened the door, foregoing shoes and padding barefoot out onto the deck -- she didn’t appear to hear him, and he shivered, following her outside. 

It was quiet, crickets chirping somewhere close by and the soft hoot of an owl further out, a cool breeze ruffling Bee’s hair and sending goosebumps creeping over Martin’s translucent skin -- and it was a fucking disgrace, he decided, that ghosts could feel the cold at all -- and Bee hesitated, angled toward the porch swing. 

“Hey,” said Gripps, illuminated by the yellowy porch light, raising his hand and wiggling his fingers in a wave, and she waved back with a tentative smile. “Out for a walk?” 

“I was just-- gonna read,” she said quietly, and held up a slim book -- Martin leaned forward so he could read the title:  _ The princess saves herself in this one _ . 

Gripps patted the seat next to him and Bee sat down after a moment’s hesitation, lifting her feet and tugging her long skirt down around her toes, cradling her book on her knees. 

“You don’t mind?” she said, and Gripps shook his head, holding up a dog-eared cookbook and a little notepad. 

“Just making some notes for Sunday dinner,” he said. “Will the pencil bother you?” 

“No, it’s fine.” Bee leaned back, adjusting the angle of her book so the porch light illuminated it better, then glanced at Gripps. “You sure it’s okay if I sit here?” 

He smiled at her. “Of course,” he said. “Anytime.” 

Martin watched them sit in companionable silence, as Gripps offered Bee half of the blanket he had borrowed from the sofa and she smiled at him and accepted it, and he didn’t feel cold anymore. 

 

\-- 

 

Amanda was watching them from the window when Martin stepped through the door -- it still felt so  _ weird _ to just step  _ through _ things instead of around them, or opening them -- and he paused as she looked down at her phone, her thumb tapping at the screen until the words  _ where are u?? _ disappeared from the message to  _ Beetroot _ , which he assumed was Bee. Her fingers flew over the tiny keyboard, and Martin leaned closer to read the text. For a moment he felt bad for snooping, then remembered that that was all he  _ could _ do these days, and just read the text. 

_ u two are cute, _ she sent, quickly followed by  _ u still want tea??? _

Martin heard a squeak from outside that sounded more human than the chain of the porch swing usually did, and he crowded close to Amanda’s shoulder so he could read Bee’s reply. 

_ are u spying on me?? I’m reading!!! And yes i alawys want tae, _ which was quickly followed by  _ *always _ and  _ *tea _ . 

Amanda snorted softly, then shivered when Martin shifted too close and his shoulder brushed into hers -- he jerked back, grimacing, and whispered “Sorry” even though she couldn’t hear him. 

“Weird,” whispered Amanda, and Martin couldn’t resist peeking at her phone one more time. 

_ Do you believe in ghosts? _

Martin shivered and found himself backing away as Amanda strode toward the kitchen, flipping on the hall light as she went by, all the while without looking up from her phone. Martin stayed in the living room, in the dark, and lit a cigarette that glowed with an eerie gleam that he could see reflected in the window glass. 

_ Do you believe in ghosts? _

 

\--

 

Gripps had been out in the garden for over an hour, talking to his rose bush. Martin hadn’t tried to follow him out -- the garden was a shared space, but it was  _ Gripps’ _ place, and he’d started drifting as soon as he neared the open door, anyway -- but he could hear him, talking softly. If the rosebush had ears, it would have heard all manner of secrets over the years, mostly from Gripps, who wasn’t much of a talker to people, but who would narrate the nonsense of the day to the various plants around the garden as he weeded them. 

The back door squeaked, and Martin found himself in the kitchen, watching the screen door snap shut. Gripps was still outside, his voice a little unsteady but still clear, and Martin frowned, stepping closer to the door. The angle wasn’t good, and he could barely see Gripps’ back where he was kneeling by the rosebush, but he could hear him. 

“...’m worried about them… Cross isn’t handling this well and… neither am I.” There was a muffled noise, then a loud sniff, and Martin swallowed hard when he realized that Gripps was crying. “It don’t feel right that Martin isn’t-- isn’t here with us--” Another sniff, and a soft sob, and Martin stepped back from the door. 

He  _ was _ there, but not for them, and it hurt. Martin lit a cigarette and turned his back to the door, and his eyes widened, choking on the smoke curling in his lungs as he stared. 

A corgi was standing in the hallway, just beyond the kitchen doorway, big ears pricked up toward him and dark eyes watching him. 

A fucking  _ corgi. _

“How,” Martin started, then shook his head. The corgi backed up, an odd, wiggling dance, and spun, racing into the living room, and Martin swore, following her. “The hell you doin’, mutt?” 

The corgi paused next to the stairs, and Martin frowned as the dog looked up at him, her tongue lolling and head tilted, tail wagging so hard it swished against the floor. “You ain’t supposed to be in here,” he said, and the dog  _ woof _ ed, unapologetic, before waddling past him, heading for the kitchen again. Martin let out a sigh and followed the little beast, who was happily tracking muddy paw prints all over the clean floor, and watched as the dog despondently found the kitchen to be devoid of reachable food. “What?” he said, when the corgi turned to him with a plaintive expression on her fuzzy face. 

_ “Woof,” _ said the corgi, and flopped onto the linoleum floor. 

Martin blew a stream of smoke over the dog’s head and crouched down, reaching out tentatively and resting a hand on her head -- his translucent fingers ruffled the fur, not quite the same as being able to pet her, but the dog seemed perfectly pleased and promptly rolled over with her stubby legs in the air so he could scratch her belly. “You’re from before,” he said, and the dog tilted her head at him, ears sweeping forward at the sound of his voice. “The dog in the road.” 

_ “Worf,” _ said the corgi, and swiped at his arm with one paw when the petting slowed. 

“How did you get here?” he murmured, obliging the dog for another minute before the faint beeping always just on the edge of his consciousness became too loud and he found himself standing by the front window in the living room, shaking his head to clear it. The corgi trotted in from the kitchen and flopped to the floor by his feet with an annoyed huff, but he didn’t bend down to pet her again -- his hand ached, and there was a ringing in his ears that wouldn’t go away. 

The corgi barked, but Martin wasn’t listening anymore. 

 

\--

 

Cross was the first one home, early from his shift at work, and he was muttering grumpily to himself as he divested a jacket, gloves, and hat, kicking off his boots and leaving them leaning haphazardly on the shoe mat before heading for the kitchen. Martin glared at the mess before following his friend, and a grin split his face as he witnessed Cross stopping dead in his tracks beside the kitchen island. 

“What the fuck?” said Cross, the words let out on a soft breath, and the taller man knelt down to offer his hand to the corgi, who shoved her wet nose against his skin briefly before licking at his fingers. “Where are you from, huh?” he crooned, scratching behind the corgi’s ears, and the dog closed her eyes in bliss. “How did you get in here?” 

The dog, of course, didn’t answer, and Martin laughed softly to himself as Cross babytalked the dog for a good ten minutes before leaping to his feet and rushing to the cupboard, pulling out one of the brightly coloured plastic bowls that Vogel had gotten for cereal and racing to the sink to fill it with water, setting it on the floor with a little too much enthusiasm. Water splashed onto the linoleum, but the corgi didn’t seem bothered -- she rolled to her feet and waddled over to shove her snout into the dish, slurping noisily. 

“God, you’re cute,” said Cross quietly, then his eyes narrowed, raising one hand to poke at the dog’s ruff and his frown deepening when his fingers met only fur. “Where’s your collar, buddy? And you… look real familiar…” All the colour drained from his face and he rocked back on his heels, eyes widening. “Are you… you’re that dog! The one Martin--” he choked, tears welling up in his eyes, and Martin could feel a prickling at his own eyes. 

Could ghosts cry? 

Yes.

Yes they could. 

“Fuck,” said Cross, as the corgi smiled up at him with a lolling tongue and bright eyes, and the man hauled the dog into his lap, sitting heavily on the floor and shoving his face into the dog’s fur -- the corgi twisted her head to lick at his face, but otherwise didn’t complain. “I miss him so much,” whispered Cross, and Martin  _ hurt. _

It hurt to see his friend hurt so much, and know that it was all his fault. 

If he had been more careful… if he’d seen the dog sooner instead of checking his phone… if he hadn’t been so slow… maybe he wouldn’t be dead, and Cross wouldn’t be crying into the fur of the dog that had been the start of it all. The dog who was happily licking away Cross’s tears, which made the man laugh -- and subsequently swear as the dog’s tongue swiped his open mouth -- and Martin felt some small consolation that at least the dog was safe, and had cheered Cross enough to stop his tears. 

Martin hated to see his friends cry. It made his chest constrict and his fingers itch to reach for the nearest baseball bat to chase away whatever had made them hurt, made him ache to comfort them in any way he was able. 

Only this time, he couldn’t do anything to help. 

 

\-- 

 

“Oh,  _ hi,” _ cooed Amanda, crouching down to pat the  _ woof _ ing corgi who met her at the door, scooching to the side so Bee could squeeze through the door behind her. “Who are you, you cute thing, you?” 

“No idea,” said Cross, stepping out of the kitchen with a spatula in his hand, and narrowing his eyes when Bee covered her mouth with her hand, which did little to muffle the snort that escaped her. “Something funny, Bee?” 

“Is that for real?” said Amanda, still rubbing the corgi’s belly as Bee doubled over with laughter, and gestured at his  _ Kiss the Cook _ apron. “I mean, do we have to pay you in kisses for whatever is cooking? Because it smells amazing and I’m starving.” 

Bee’s face turned bright red, and so did Cross’s, and Amanda’s grin could only be described as shit-eating. “No, you don’t gotta pay me in  _ kisses,” _ said Cross, rubbing the back of his neck and looking away. “It’s stir fry, and there’s plenty for everyone. And, uh, no idea about the dog. She was already here when I got home.”

“In the  _ house _ here?” said Amanda, looking down at the dog and back at Cross, who shrugged. 

“Maybe the ghost let her in,” he said. “The doors were all shut, and there’s no way she could climb through a window -- not that there were any open, anyway -- so I haven’t the foggiest.” 

“You can’t blame the ghost for  _ everything,” _ said Bee, nudging at Amanda’s butt with her boot until the other woman moved enough so she could close the door. She left her coat on the hook and her boots lined up neatly by Cross’s before skipping over to him, stretching up to plant a kiss on his cheek before dashing by toward her room. “Save some stir fry for me, I already paid!” 

Cross stared after her, jaw slack, and Amanda cackled by the door as the corgi let out a  _ woof _ at the noise. “Better save her some,” she said, patting the corgi one more time before straightening, giggling at the mess of loose hair all her petting had dislodged and had then wafted all over the floor. 

“You’d better vacuum that shit up,” said Cross, waving his spatula at her, and Amanda grumbled at his back as he returned to the kitchen, but she nudged the corgi into motion and made for the hall closet where the vacuum was kept. Something flashed in the corner of her eye and she froze, watching as a ghostly man lifted a silvery lighter and blew a stream of pale smoke across the room, the orange-tinged afternoon light streaming through his intangible form. 

The man glanced at her and bright eyes widened, their gazes locked together for an immeasurable moment before the corgi barked and ran for the window, and when Amanda’s eyes darted from the dog to the window again, the ghost was gone. 

“Jesus,” she whispered, and yanked open the closet.  _ “Ghosts." _


	5. In Which there is Take-out

Had she seen him? 

Martin had watched in a daze as Amanda had vacuumed up the dog hair, and even hours later, as Cross was hunched over the computer, madly clicking away, Martin couldn’t focus. Had she  _ seen _ him? Really seen him? This wild-haired, beautiful stranger who had come to live in their house -- had she seen him? 

“Paper,” muttered Cross, and Martin shook his head, trying unsuccessfully to clear the fogginess of his thoughts. “Need paper.” He abandoned the computer and marched out of the room, and Martin drifted after him in a daze. 

And there was Amanda, in the living room, completely oblivious to him once again. 

Maybe he had imagined it.

Wishful thinking.

Yeah. 

That had to be it. 

“Do we have any  _ plain _ paper?” said Cross, holding a sheaf of pastel colours in one hand and his phone in the other. Amanda covered her mouth to hide a smile -- his hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, but there were so many flyaway strands sticking up everywhere that he looked just a little ridiculous. Too much static. 

“Why not pastels?” said Amanda, and he sighed. 

“They’re posters for the dog,” he said. “I’ve called six shelters and two veterinary offices today and no one’s called in about a missing dog, or at least not a missing corgi.” The corgi in question  _ woof _ ed to make her presence known, and bumped her head into his leg for good measure. “Hey, Rapunzel. I’ve already fed you breakfast,  _ and _ you ate some of my toast. Quit bein’ a beggar.” 

“What a little thief,” said Amanda, crouching down, and the dog immediately ran to climb half onto her lap, tiny tail wagging furiously. “Is that your new name, huh? Rapunzel?” She grinned when the dog’s ears swiveled forward at the name. “Is that your  _ actual _ name?” 

“Maybe?” said Cross, tapping furiously at his phone. “Vogel decided to do a dramatic reading of Rapunzel this morning on the stairs and she came running when he said the name.” 

“That’s adorable,” said Amanda. “I still vote pastel papers. Wouldn’t that be more eye-catching than plain old white, anyway?” 

“I guess,” said Cross, wandering back down the hall, and Amanda stayed where she was, petting the corgi who seemed perfectly pleased to just flop on her back on the floor and receive endless belly rubs. 

Her phone buzzed, and Amanda dug it out of her pocket, continuing to pat the dog as she opened the new text. 

_ Hey, u want takeout? _

_ Sure do _ , she texted back.  _ what u thinking? _

_ Indian, _ came the reply, and Amanda grinned, rising to her feet and patting her leg -- Rapunzel rolled over onto her paws and waddled after Amanda down the hall, where she knocked on the doorframe to the study. “Hey, Cross,” she said, and he looked up from where he had been hunched over the computer keyboard. “Do you guys like Indian food?” 

“Sure do,” he said. “There’s a real good place on Sunflower Street, in town. Why d’you ask?” 

Amanda held up her phone briefly. “Bee’s offering to pick some up on her way home. Anything you wanna add to the order?”

“Sounds good,” said Cross, then grinned. “Actually, sounds  _ great.  _ It’s Vogel’s night to cook and he usually orders out, anyway. It’s safer for everyone involved if he doesn’t actually cook anything.” 

Amanda laughed. “It’s the same with me,” she said. “Bee won’t let me cook meals anymore unless they’re sandwiches. Too dangerous, she said. Hazardous to her health, or something.” 

The corgi barked, trotting past her to nose at the drapes, and Amanda paused, listening to Cross typing away at the computer, his fingers flying over the keys with a loud  _ clickety-clack _ that only came from old clunky keyboards, and what she swore was someone saying  _ Hey, don’t get snot on my pants, jerk. _

“Did you hear that?” she said, and Cross lifted his head again. 

“Hear what?” he said, as Rapunzel shoved her face into the drapes, woofing into the fabric twice before plopping her butt to the floor and letting her mouth hang open in a doggy grin, tongue lolling, her soft gaze following something neither Cross or Amanda could see. “Yeah, she does that. I swear she’s looking at someone, but there’s never anyone there. Not even a squirrel.” He tapped a few keys, and the printer groaned to life, spitting out pastel sheets of paper with a photo of Rapunzel and a phone number printed in grayscale. Cross spun the chair and squinted at Amanda. “Did you ask me something about takeout?” 

She grinned. “Yeah, we’re getting Indian food,” she said. “What’s your order, buddy?” 

Cross smiled. 

 

\--

 

The printer spat out a final sheet of pale pink paper, and Cross lifted up the top sheet, frowning at it for a moment before holding it up for Amanda to see. “Does that look okay to you?” he said, and she stepped closer. 

“Who’s this?” she said, and Cross tilted his head. 

“Who where?” he said, and she tapped the photo. 

“The person, right there,” she said. “Petting Rapunzel.” 

Cross stared at the image for a long moment, then dragged his gaze up to meet Amanda’s. “There wasn’t anyone there,” he said quietly. 

Amanda traced the edge of the hazy figure in the photo with her fingertip. “Sure looks like it,” she said, and Cross snatched another printout from the tray. 

“Maybe it’s a printing error,” he said, spinning in his chair to face the computer again and pulling up the file. “Wait a second…” 

“It’s there, too,” said Amanda, leaning over his shoulder to look at the screen. The photograph was clearer there than on the soft pastel paper, and the figure was sharper, although more of a shadowy shape of a person than a definable individual. “Is that the ghost?” 

“Ain’t no such thing,” said Cross, but there was a funny look on his face as he zoomed in on the image. “See that glint, right there by her ear? Does that look like a ring to you?” 

“And it looks like it’s attached to a hand,” said Amanda. “Are you  _ sure _ you don’t think it’s a ghost? Because it sure as hell looks like one.” 

“Impossible,” said Cross. 

Amanda frowned at the photo, then shrugged. “Maybe we’re just seeing things,” she said. “Y’know. Ghosts on the brain. We can ask the guys when everyone gets home?”

“Yeah,” said Cross slowly, gaze fixed on the photo. “Ghosts on the brain.” 

Amanda patted his shoulder and said with a cheer that was only slightly forced, “D’you want help putting all these up? I can wield a mean stapler.” 

“Sure,” said Cross, managing a smile that looked almost as forced as her cheerfulness. “That would be great. Thanks, Manda.” 

 

\--

 

“That is so much food,” said Vogel, eyes wide when he came in the door, and swiftly kicked off his boots and hung up his jacket so he could join them at the coffee table, which was laden with takeout boxes. “Is this dinner?” 

“Yup, saved by takeout,” said Cross with a grin, and Vogel let out a whoop before throwing himself onto the sofa next to Amanda with a bounce of the cushions. 

“What did you guys get?” he said, and Amanda giggled. 

“What  _ didn’t _ we get, more like,” she said. 

“Everything spicy,” said Gripps. “There’s milk for everyone in the fridge.” 

Amanda coughed into her hand, but it sounded suspiciously like  _ losers. _ Gripps raised an eyebrow at her, and she winked at him. “Don’t worry, there’s non-spicy stuff, too.” 

“Spicy all the way,” said Cross, already loading his plate with a variety from the spread, and Amanda handed Vogel a plate before snagging the samosas away from Cross. 

“Where’s Rapunzel?” said Vogel, sneaking a samosa off of Cross’s plate while the taller man was distracted by Amanda’s thievery, and his face fell. “Did someone come take her?” 

“Nah, no one’s called,” said Cross, and swore when he saw his samosa disappear into Vogel’s mouth. Amanda gave him a wicked smile, but graciously let him have the samosa plate back. “There’s posters all over town, so if someone was missing a dog and went out looking, hopefully they’ll see at least one of them.” 

“So she’s ours for one more day!” said Vogel cheerfully, and leaned behind Amanda to peer at Bee’s food. “What do you have? That doesn’t look spicy.” 

“It’s korma,” said Bee. “I’m not a big fan of spicy things. Do you want to try it?” 

“What’s in it?” he said, then shrugged and held up a spoon. “Who cares. You don’t mind?” She grinned and held out the bowl so he could get some rice with the korma. He took a spoonful, shoved it into his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully for a while before swallowing. “It’s good!” he said. “Could use some spice.” He looked over the table. “Which stuff is which?” 

“Who knows,” said Cross. “It’s more fun this way.” 

“Spicy mystery,” said Amanda. “Eat at your own risk.” 

“The best kind of eating,” said Vogel with enthusiasm as Cross and Gripps groaned. 

“That’s how you got food poisoning,” said Gripps. 

“Three times,” said Cross. 

“It was four,” muttered Martin, resting his elbows on the back of the sofa and leaning forward, and Amanda twitched in her seat, nearly toppling her plate off of her lap. 

“It was four,” said Gripps, and Amanda froze, her fork halfway to her open mouth. Vogel cast her a concerned look, but she gave him a reassuring smile, and he resumed dipping samosas into the various sauces. “Remember that food truck?”

“Should’ve listened to that conspiracy theorist,” said Cross. “Some dude in a bathrobe, said it was against the will of the universe, or something.”

Amanda sat back on the sofa, rolling her shoulders when she hit a cold spot -- Martin yanked his hand back and rested it aside her shoulder, his fingers curling into the couch cushions. “My brother knew a guy like that,” she said. “Some dude he met, real interested in the will of the universe.”

“Maybe it’s a cult,” said Cross. 

“Maybe it’s aliens,” said Vogel. 

“Could’ve been the same guy,” said Gripps. 

“Or all of the above,” said Bee, and Amanda elbowed her. 

“Big family?” said Cross, then quickly added, “if you don’t mind me asking.” 

“Not big, just my brother and our parents,” she said. “Bee’s the one with the hundreds of cousins and second cousins and aunts and uncles all over the place.” 

“Only child,” said Bee. “How about you?” 

“Little sisters in college,” said Gripps. “Two of them.” 

“They’re  _ industrial engineers,” _ said Cross. “He’s very proud of them.” 

“Basically raised them,” said Vogel, “and also me.” 

“We all raised Vogel,” said Gripps drily, reaching over from his chair to ruffle the younger man’s hair, and Vogel ducked away, laughing. His shoulder bumped into Amanda’s and nearly upended her plate. She stole one of his samosas in retaliation, and ate it in one bite, spicy sauce and all. “From a sweet little college kid to the suave young gentleman he is today.” 

Vogel grinned and swiped a hand over his coiffed hair, throwing his head back and striking a pose. “Suave, you say?” he purred, then cracked up laughing -- Gripps leaned over and swiped his plate before it could fall, calmly taking a bite of his chana masala. Gripps made a face and Vogel laughed harder, tears coming to both their eyes. “What’s the matter, Gripps, not into spice?” 

“You brat,” said Gripps, and gave him back his plate. “Did you put  _ extra _ cayenne on that?” 

“Who doesn’t?” said Amanda, grinning at him and holding up the spice container that had somehow sneaked onto the coffee table amongst the takeout, and Gripps sighed, shaking his head. 

Rustling rose from the floor, and they all turned to see Rapunzel battling her way through the discarded plastic bags that had been left on the floor, paws already entangled. She stopped when she saw them watching her, and whined. 

“Aww, poor girl,” cooed Vogel, and scooped her up, swiping at the plastic bags until she was free, and set her carefully on the floor again. Rapunzel licked his hand and darted under the coffee table, where she promptly fell asleep. 

Cross eyed the container of noodles in the middle that no one had touched yet, and gingerly piled some onto his plate. “How’d you two meet?” 

Amanda and Bee exchanged a glance and started giggling. “Fun story, actually,” said Amanda, and Cross raised his eyebrows as he tried the mystery noodles, his eyes watering at the level of spice. “So, we were at this roller derby--” 

“You do  _ roller derby?” _ said Vogel, nearly spilling his plate when he sat up, eyes widening. “That’s so  _ cool.” _

Amanda grinned at him. “Yeah,” she said, “I’d just joined this cool team and started making friends, and anyway, some of my friends were friends with Bee, and they decided to set us up on a blind date.” 

Cross choked on his milk, liquid spilling down his chin, and Amanda turned a narrow-eyed gaze at him as Bee paused mid-bite. 

“There a problem?” said Amanda carefully, as Bee lowered her fork, and Cross hastily grabbed a napkin to wipe his face. 

“Real smooth, Cross,” muttered Martin, and Amanda glanced his way with a slight frown before glowering at Cross. 

“The noodles are really spicy,” he rasped, his face red. “And hey, no judgment here, I’m bi.” 

Gripps nodded as Amanda and Bee ceased holding their forks like they were getting ready to stab someone. “No one here is straight, it’s cool,” he said, as Vogel and Cross both nodded, glancing sidelong at Cross before adding, “How did the date go?” 

_ “So _ glad you asked,” said Amanda with a wicked grin, and Bee snorted a laugh as she reached for her glass. “Our friends thought it would be a  _ great _ idea to send us to this real fancy, uptown restaurant, with reservations and everything--” 

“They even had a maître d’,” said Bee, “with a suit and an eggplant necktie.” 

“Not, like, a purple necktie,” said Amanda, “it literally had little embroidered eggplants on it. I nearly died trying not to laugh.” 

“They had little  _ faces _ on them,” said Bee. 

“I want an eggplant tie,” said Vogel with a sigh. “That sounds fun.”

“Your kindergarteners would strangle you with it,” said Gripps, and turned to the women. “So, what happened?” 

“I’d been waiting a little while,” said Amanda, “and it was a  _ nice _ place, so all the guests and waitstaff were giving me the side-eye for showing up in a  _ kinda _ short dress and leggings and biker boots.” 

“And the lipstick,” said Bee with a grin, and Amanda laughed. 

“Yeah, the black lipstick,” she said. “But hey, at least  _ I _ didn’t show up in paint-covered overalls.” 

“Hey, I did my hair real nice and that top was cute as fuck,” said Bee, and Amanda bumped her shoulder into Bee’s. 

“Sure was,” said Amanda. “You still have that top, right?” 

“It ripped,” said Bee. “Now it’s a crop top.” 

“Even cuter,” said Amanda. “So here we were, kind of out of place, and we decide to order some wine.” 

“The waiter thought we were nuts, when he brought it,” said Bee. “Since we asked how much it was.” 

“We hadn’t even looked at the main menu yet,” said Amanda. “But when that guy said a single bottle of wine was  _ ninety-one dollars--” _

“Holy shit,” said Vogel. 

“Highway robbery,” said Cross. 

“It was pretty good,” said Amanda, “and since he’d already poured us little half-full glasses we gave it a try.” 

“It was  _ excellent,” _ said Bee with a dreamy sigh. “Oh, Monty, you will always live fondly in our memories.” 

“Monty…?” said Cross, and Amanda and Bee cast him eerily identical grins. 

“We’ll get to Monty in a second,” said Amanda. “We were making small talk--” 

“Terrible small talk,” Bee muttered, and giggled when Amanda elbowed her gently in the ribs. “You asked me what I thought of the  _ weather.” _

_ “Mediocre _ small talk,” amended Amanda. “We looked at the menus, and it was all weird shit that you just  _ knew _ would come out on this huge white plate with maybe two bites on it and a drizzled sauce for garnish, y’know, and Bee looked at me and asked whether I liked French fries.” 

Vogel’s eyes narrowed. “You  _ do _ like French fries, right?” he said, and Amanda laughed. 

“French fries, cheesy fries, curly fries, loaded fries, you name a fry and I’ll eat it,” she said. “And here was this gorgeous woman asking me if I wanted to bail on a lame restaurant with mostly meaty meals and go eat  _ fries. _ Like I could say no to  _ that.” _ She glanced at Bee with a huge smile on her face, and Cross felt his heart skip a beat. “Then Bee looked at me, leaned in as if she was gonna tell me a secret, and then  _ she put the whole bottle of wine into the pocket of her overalls.” _

“She did  _ not,” _ said Gripps, turning to Bee with wide eyes. “Were those the same overalls you had on while you were painting? With the big front pocket?” 

“Yeah, with the embroidered flowers,” said Bee, grinning. “The pocket is deeper than it looks.” 

_ “Real _ deep,” said Amanda. “And the bottle sat weird--” 

“Oh, my God,” said Bee.  _ “Lesbian wine baby.”  _

Cross managed not to choke on his -- very spicy -- noodles, but only just. “Lesbian  _ what?” _ he said. “Is that-- like a lesbian wine aunt?” 

“Do  _ not _ mention your aunt Liana in this house again,” said Vogel with a shudder. “Last time she ‘dropped by’ for a visit, she was here for  _ eight days.” _

“She drank  _ all _ the wine,” said Cross mournfully. 

“There was never any food in the fridge,” said Gripps. “Didn’t matter what it was, she ate it.” 

_ “And _ she made out with Mrs. Murphy,” said Vogel.  _ “In the middle of the supermarket.” _

“The grocer wouldn’t look me in the eye for days,” said Cross. He cleared his throat, shaking his head to dislodge the mental image of their neighbor making out with his aunt next to the delicatessen, and said, “Okay, what exactly is a lesbian wine baby?” 

“Because it was in her front pocket,” said Vogel, and Cross muttered  _ ohhhhhhhhhhhh. _ “Right?” said the younger man, turning to the women, who nodded. 

“So I suggested we head to the ladies’ room,” said Amanda, “just a little too loud, and we both get up and walk right out of the restaurant while the maître d’ was seating another couple. Right out to the parking lot, and no one even followed us. God, I don’t think I’ve ever laughed that hard in my  _ life.” _

“I thought you were gonna pee your pants,” said Bee. “There I was, smuggling out a bottle of wine, and this punk couldn’t even keep it together long enough to cross the parking lot without cracking up.” She bumped her shoulder into Amanda’s. “Then she made up for it by having an utterly  _ gorgeous _ bike.” 

“The Harley in the garage?” said Gripps, and she nodded. 

“Harley-Davidson Softail Deluxe,” said Bee with a wistful sigh. “The engine on that thing…” She hummed. “Delicious.” 

“Sometimes it’s better than a vibrator,” said Amanda, and Martin choked on his cigarette, glad for once that no one could hear him coughing -- Amanda glanced his way, but her eyes skipped over him to Bee. “Yeah, I guess it was pretty hot. So, Bee’s on the back behind me, and I feel something hard press up against me…” She grinned as Bee’s face turned red as the other three turned to stare at her at once. 

“Ohhhh, the wine bottle,” said Vogel at last, and she laughed. 

“Yeah.” 

“And,” said Bee, “even as she’s starting the bike, she doesn’t  _ stop making jokes. _ ” 

Amanda threw back her head and laughed, slapping her thigh. “Oh my God, that’s right,” she said. “I was just cracking boner jokes the whole time, I’m surprised she still wanted to kiss me later.” 

“I figured with a mouth that dirty, you  _ had _ to be a phenomenal kisser,” said Bee, giggling when Amanda poked her in the stomach and missing the flush rising in Cross’s cheeks, which the taller man tried to hide by shoving a huge forkful of spicy noodles into his mouth. 

“Oh, Cross,” said Martin, shaking his head with a slight grin and blowing a stream of ghostly smoke at his friend, “you’ve got it bad, don’tcha.” 

Amanda’s eyes narrowed, flicking toward him before landing on Cross, and a small smile tugged at her lips, unseen by Cross, who was guzzling the rest of Gripps’ milk, having regretted the enormous bite of noodles. 

_ “Was _ she a good kisser?” said Gripps, ignoring Cross’s gurgle as he nearly choked on his stolen milk. 

Amanda waggled her eyebrows at him with a grin. “We’ll get to that later,” she said, and looked to Bee. “Where were we? On the bike?” 

“Yeah, “said Bee, “we’re on the bike, and there she is, yelling these awful,  _ awful _ jokes over the engine, and I look over--” 

“And there’s this little old lady with her hair all coiffed and a string of pearls, real high class, and she looks so  _ affronted--”  _ Amanda laughed. “I thought she was gonna call the cops on us!” 

“We’re lucky she was in a romantic mood,” said Bee, “or at least a forgiving one.” 

“She shook her  _ finger _ at us,” said Amanda. “She was wearing so many rings, I thought one of them was gonna fly off.” She giggled, then tried to get her laughter under control, waving a hand. “Yeah, so there was that, so we took off before the lady decided to  _ really _ get us in trouble, and Bee suggested we go to this cute little shack down near the waterfront.” 

“Gull’s Perch,” said Bee, “or something like that. It was a seasonal place, and they changed the name a lot--”

“All these different sea birds,” said Amanda. 

“--yeah, those, and the cooks, never changed, so you  _ knew _ whatever you ordered was going to be good no matter what.” 

“The best kind of place,” said Cross. 

“Always have good fries,” said Vogel. 

“Precisely,” said Amanda. “We get our fries, and settle on a picnic table with Monty--” 

“Monty?” said Vogel. 

“Who’s Monty?” said Gripps. 

“Oh, uh, the wine bottle,” said Amanda. 

“Our lesbian wine baby!” said Bee with a laugh, leaning back in her seat and grinning. “He was a 2010 Montes Folly Syrah. So, obviously--” 

“--we  _ had _ to name him Monty,” finished Amanda, as Bee cracked up laughing. “And drink him, of course. You still have the bottle, don’t you, Bee?” 

“Yeah, he’s in my room,” said Bee. “Holding some irises for now.” 

“He does make an excellent vase,” said Amanda with a grin. “Where was I…? Uh, yeah, so we ate these amazing fries, and it was such a nice time and this Bee gal was  _ super _ cute, so of course I go in for a goodbye kiss--” 

“Pretty sure it was me going in to kiss you,” said Bee, and Amanda grinned at her. 

“So here we were, stuffed full of fries and Monty was reduced to an empty bottle, and we go in for a kiss--” Amanda paused to sip from her drink, grinning as the guys leaned forward expectantly for her to finish. “--and we both step back and just go,  _ nope.” _

“No spark,” said Bee. “I really  _ liked _ her -- still do, love -- but it just wasn’t there.” 

“Better off as friends,” said Amanda, and the two women grinned at each other. Martin glanced at Cross, who was focused on scraping his bowl clean, a furrow in his brow. “So there you go. That’s how we met.”

Cross still hadn’t looked up, and Gripps and Vogel shared a look over his bowed head. Gripps cleared his throat. “Everyone about done eating?” he said. 

“So we can start  _ drinking!” _ crowed Vogel. “Drinking game, drinking game!” 

“A drinking game?” said Gripps, and groaned as Vogel bounced up in his seat. “Vogel--”

“Never Have I Ever!” crowed Vogel, and Gripps sighed. 

“Best game,” said Cross, finally perking up, and Gripps slid down in his chair. 

“Worst game,” said Gripps, when Amanda looked at him in confusion. “We’ve known each other so long, it’s too easy to make each other drink.” 

“Until we’re all suuuuper drunk and can’t remember anything!” said Vogel, and his eyes widened. “Wait, we gotta have a blanket fort for this! It isn’t Never Have I Ever without a blanket fort!” 

Twelve blankets, seven pillows, and appropriated fairy lights from Bee’s room later, all of them -- even Rapunzel, woken from her nap -- were crammed in a circle under the blankets, the lights soft and rosy through the warm colours of the fabric. Bottles of alcohol were jumbled together in the one clear spot on the floor in the center, and their cups had various levels of various alcohols in them. 

“All right,” said Vogel, drawing out the last word for dramatic effect, “who’s gonna start?” 

“Cross,” said Gripps, and Cross nearly choked on his beer. 

“Why  _ me, _ man?” he said, spluttering. “I can never think of these things.” 

“You were the last one drinking,” said Gripps, as if that explained everything, and Cross sighed. 

“Uh, okay, never have I ever streaked,” said Cross, and Vogel groaned, taking a shot, and Cross nearly swallowed his tongue when Bee threw back a drink as well. 

“You, too?” said Vogel, and the red-haired woman grinned, raising her glass to him in a salute. 

“It was a dare,” said Bee, and considered them all for a moment. “Done drugs?” she said finally, and all of them groaned and drank. 

“What kind?” said Cross, and she laughed, shaking her head. 

“Wasn’t part-a the question,” she said, and patted him on the shoulder. “We’ll save  _ that _ story for later.” Cross was blushing, visible even in the dim light, and Martin grinned through his haze of smoke. Dorks. “You’re up, Vooo-gel.” 

“Ever… ridden a motorbike?” said Vogel, and the two women drank. So did Cross. 

“When did  _ you _ ride a motorbike?” said Gripps, and Cross turned a brighter shade of red. 

“My last boyfriend,” he muttered, then paused when Gripps continued to stare at him expectantly. “Okay, and the girlfriend before that, too! Jesus. Amanda, call something else, for fuck’s sake, I need a drink.” 

“Never have I ever… been out of the country,” said Amanda. Cross, Gripps, and Bee all drank, and Amanda laughed as Vogel pouted. “Sorry, buddy.” 

“Never have I ever punched a dude for insulting someone’s makeup,” said Gripps with a wicked grin, and all of them drank. Amanda raised an eyebrow, and Vogel grinned. 

“That’s how we met!” he said cheerfully. “We all beat up this guy who was being an ass!” 

“For various reasons,” said Cross, “but one of them was Vogel’s  _ on point _ eyeliner game, so the guy was  _ asking _ for a good fight.” The other two guys nodded in agreement, and Gripps poked Vogel when he tried to sneak a second sip. 

“Who’s turn is it?” said Amanda, refilling her glass and passing the bottle to Bee when she made grabby hands for it. 

“No idea,” said Bee, “so that makes it mine. Never have I ever been to Europe,” she said, and took the shot of liqueur that Vogel had just handed her. 

“That’s cheap,” said Amanda, and Bee just laughed. Cross was the only other one who drank, and Bee turned to him. 

“Where in Europe were you?” she said, and he waggled his eyebrows at her. 

“Wasn’t part of the question,” he parroted back, and laughed when she cursed at him. “My parents took me traveling around Spain a lot when I was younger,” he relented, and her eyes widened. 

“That’s where I went, too!” she said. “It was in high school, our whole class went on a trip together over the summer!” 

“Just you wait one hot  _ second,” _ said Cross, nearly knocking his drink over in his haste to exit the blanket fort. “Wait one second!” he yelled, his footsteps fading as he ran up the stairs. 

“Drink while we wait?” said Vogel, and they all took a shot. “Whoa, what  _ was _ that?” he said, squinting at the fine print on the bottle’s label. “Who the fuck got banana liqueur?” 

“It was in the cupboard,” said Gripps with a shrug. The footsteps got louder again, and Cross flailed his way back in under the blankets, dropping to the floor cross-legged next to Bee and holding a large, leatherbound book on his lap. Rapunzel rolled over onto her back, leaning against his leg, and he absently rubbed her offered belly. 

_ “Found _ it,” he said gleefully, and Gripps and Vogel shared a glance. Martin leaned over Rapunzel, craning his neck for a good look at the cover, and his eyes widened when Cross flipped open the photo album, half onto Bee’s lap. Bee scooted closer to Cross so she could help him support the book and take a closer look, her long hair brushing against Cross’s arm. “Look, see? Here’s the photos from the first trip after I got my camera.” His face twisted for a moment, then he shook his head, flipping to the next page. 

Martin glanced at Vogel and Gripps, who were watching Cross with barely concealed concern, and he bit his lip. He hadn’t seen Cross touch any of his photography equipment since… well. Since the accident. And he  _ knew _ Cross -- sentimental, emotional, wonderful Cross -- and he knew it was his fault. Martin had gotten Cross that camera, an early Christmas present before Cross had left for vacation, and when he’d come home, Cross had told him that taking the camera with him had almost been like taking Martin with him. 

“Here we are at the Santiago de Compostela,” said Cross, pausing at a spread of photos. The largest was centered on the second page, a sunset view on what appeared to be a roof, with smiling tourists and one particularly friendly, blurry bird in the corner. Silhouetted against the sun was a woman with fiery hair, the pattern of her cardigan barely visible from the backlighting, and Bee leaned closer. 

“Wait a minute,” she said, tracing the hem of the cardigan in the photo, “that’s my sweater.” She looked up at Cross, who was gaping at her. “When did you say this trip was?” 

“Less talk, more drink,” said Vogel, leaning over to bump his shoulder against Cross’s, and shivered as he drew back -- Martin slid back, too late, and winced in sympathy as Vogel shook himself. “Anyone else feel a draft?” 

“Just you,” said Amanda.  _ “Obviously _ you should have another drink to warm up.” She glanced over at Cross and Bee, who were making excited noises and pointing at photos in the book, and she grinned. “You two lovebirds still gonna play?” 

“Never have I ever seen a ghost,” said Cross immediately, and Amanda cursed at him and took a drink -- she was the only one, and Martin snorted. 

“That was  _ low,” _ she said. “Never have I ever eaten something past the expiration date.” 

“How did you  _ know?” _ groaned Vogel, but happily took his drink. “Ever… eaten something deep-fried that wasn’t meant to be, and ice cream doesn’t count.  _ Everyone’s _ had deep-fried ice cream.” Everyone drank, and he laughed. 

“I ain’t saying what it was,” said Bee, and traced one of the photos on the new page she had flipped to. “I remember that!” she said. “You captured the light so beautifully.” 

“Thanks,” said Cross, and he was blushing again. Bee didn't catch the way Cross looked at her from the corner of his eye, but Martin sure did. Utterly  _ smitten. _

“Never have I ever,” said Gripps, enunciating carefully, and Martin squinted at the bottle in front of him, unable to read the alcohol content. A lot, probably. “Ever…” He glanced at Vogel, and grinned. “Flirted my way out of a speeding ticket.” 

Vogel smoothed his hair back and grinned. “And it was more than  _ once,” _ he said, far too pleased with himself, and he winked at Amanda, who was failing at hiding her laughter. “And two of those times was the  _ same cop.” _

“Oh my  _ god,” _ said Amanda, leaning against Bee for how hard she was laughing, and Cross leaned into Bee to compensate for them both leaning into him. Bee squeaked, nearly upending the photo album, and Cross caught her drink to keep it from spilling. 

“Never have I ever,” said Cross, “made out with a guy.” He was watching Bee out of the corner of his eye, trying to be casual, but even Vogel was smirking in his direction. Amanda, Vogel, and Bee drank, and Vogel laughed. 

“Cross, you gotta drink, man,” he said. “I bought so many ear plugs, for fuck’s sake.” 

Cross turned bright red. “Oh, fuck off,” he said, but he drank. 

The questions petered off into wild escapades --  _ jumped off a roof, been electrocuted, _ and  _ gone paragliding _ were some of them -- that had even wilder explanations, and before long they were all dissolved into giggly drunk messes, sprawled on the floor in a tangle of limbs and empty bottles. Bee was leaning on Amanda’s shoulder, and she abruptly burst into giggles. 

“Manda,” she whispered, a little too loud, and Amanda opened her eyes, blinking up at the roof of their blanket fort. 

“What?” she whispered back. 

“Manda, you’re soft.” 

Amanda didn’t reply for a long moment, then said, “Bee?” 

“Hmmmm?” 

“You’ve gone bumbly, haven’t you?” 

Vogel snorted, just to their left, and Bee sighed. “Bumbly Bee,” she sang softly. “That’s meeeee.” 

“Bumbly Bee,” repeated Cross, almost reverently, and Vogel started giggling. 

“That’s so  _ cute,” _ said Vogel, and Gripps reached over to pat him gently. 

“Go to  _ sleep,” _ he grumbled. “I’m too drunk for all this cuteness. It’s  _ killing _ me.” 

“Wouldn’t wanna kill Gripps,” mumbled Cross, and they lapsed into silence, and slowly into soft snoring.   
Martin lit a cigarette and breathed out on a heavy sigh, the ethereal smoke curling around the blankets draped everywhere. Soft snores continued to rumble through the air, and a sleepy mumble rose above them, “D’you smell smoke?” 

Martin choked. 

“Nevermind,” came a whisper, and another snore joined the ruckus. Martin retreated to the window, reaching down to pat Rapunzel on the head -- she gave him a doggy grin for his troubles -- and leaned against the wall, listening to his family sleep and watching the night slip by. 

By the light of the moon, Martin looked down at the pack of cigarettes in his hand. One on the left was crumpled from where he had jammed it into his pocket in a rush, right before he had run across the street to get the dog out of the road. There were twelve left altogether, and no matter how many he smoked or dumped on the floor, it was always precisely twelve, precisely the same, every time he opened the pack again. One crumpled, three crushed together by a bent corner, all of them still in one piece. 

He didn’t change. It had already been a week, and he was… static. He watched the lives of his friends -- his  _ family _ \-- move on without him, and he didn’t change. He never would. His friends would grow older and move on, and he would… what? Be trapped as a ghost in the house forever? Would he linger on long after they had moved away? Or would he fade into nothing but a memory? 


	6. In Which a Little is Explained

“Guys, I forgot to ask you last night,” said Amanda, setting a bright pastel blue sheet of paper on the table amidst the cereal boxes and milk cartons, and an orange juice carton she had seen Cross swipe from a bleary-eyed Vogel and replace with one of milk before Vogel could pour it in his cereal. “Does this look weird to you?” 

“Are these the posters you guys put up?” said Gripps, snagging the paper. “This looks great.” He glanced at Cross. “Did you take the photo?” 

“Yeah,” said Cross, and there was something heavy in his voice that Amanda couldn’t bear to hear. “The, uh. Right behind the dog. What do you see?” 

“Is that a dude?” said Vogel sleepily, leaning against Gripps so he could see the poster easier. “Who is that?” 

“I don’t know,” said Cross, “since there wasn’t anyone standing next to the dog when I took the photo.” 

Bee lifted her head from her coffee, and she, Gripps, and Vogel all stared at Cross with wide eyes. Vogel sat up, eyes bright. “Is it a ghost?” he said, excitement colouring his voice, and Cross shrugged. 

“It’s totally a ghost,” said Amanda. Cross rolled his eyes heavenward, and she knocked her booted foot into his ankle with a little more force than could be deemed accidental. “I’m serious, guys, I think this place is haunted.” 

“It  _ is _ an old house,” said Gripps, as Vogel whooped and flung his hands in the air. “It’s very possible that there was… an event here that could lead to a haunting.” 

“A  _ murder?” _ said Vogel, leaning forward in his set. “Cross, that’s right up your alley! You love mysteries! Murder mysteries! Whatever!” 

“You like mysteries?” said Bee, and Cross smiled slightly. 

“Yeah, I love mystery novels,” he said. 

“Ain’t you seen him reading them  _ all _ the  _ time?” _ said Vogel. “He’s like an  _ expert _ on mysteries, he even helped me solve one once!” 

“A mystery, huh?” said Bee. “Sounds like there’s a story there.” 

“Let’s not get sidetracked here,” said Cross quickly. “But we all agree there’s something weird about the photo, right?” 

“Right,” said Vogel. “It’s a ghost.” His eyes widened. “We should talk to it! Or him! Or her! Or they! We outta make sure they’re okay with us living here!” 

“Buddy, we live here,” said Cross. “And we pay to do so, and ghosts don’t. When ghosts start to pay rent,  _ then _ they can have a say in who stays and goes.” 

“Harsh,” said Amanda, and she could’ve  _ sworn _ she heard someone snort. But when she looked around, no one looked like they had. “Weird,” she whispered. 

“What’s that?” said Vogel, looking up at her with his spoon hanging out of his mouth, a cheerio falling back into his bowl. “Did you say something, Manda?” 

“Nah,” she said. “Just thinking.” 

 

\-------

 

Martin hesitated by the table, resting a hand on the back of one of the chairs and only vaguely triumphant that his hand didn’t slip through the wooden back, too preoccupied with the sudden rush of dizziness. 

That hadn’t happened before. 

God, he felt sick. 

Bee was humming, occasionally drowned out by the sound of the faucet and the clink of ceramics as she washed the dishes -- why she felt like doing them by hand when they had a perfectly good dishwasher, he wasn’t sure -- and he tried to focus on that, stepping back toward the door as another wave of dizziness hit him. 

And… faded. 

Huh. 

Standing by the door, Martin frowned at the table. He felt  _ fine. _ Mostly fine. A little woozy, but not overwhelmingly so like he had a moment before. 

“What the  _ fuck,” _ he said, and inched closer to the table. The dizziness came back, full force, and he found himself standing in the doorway, blinking dazedly as dust motes danced through the stream of sunlight from the window. “Th’ fuck,” he whispered, and frowned at the table. 

For some reason, he couldn’t go near it. Why? He’d definitely gone near the table before, so what had changed? The only things on the table were a stack of paper, probably something school-related that belonged to Gripps or Vogel... and the charm bracelet Bee had taken off before doing the dishes. 

Could that be it?

A sharp intake of breath behind him pulled Martin’s attention away, and he turned to find Bee muttering curses as she examined her hand. She rinsed her hand and carefully patted it dry with a paper towel, and when she moved the paper away Martin could clearly see that she was bleeding from a cut on the palm of her hand.

“Shit,” said Martin, moving closer to get a look at her hand, the bracelet already forgotten. “Are you okay? There’s a first aid kit under the counter.” She couldn’t hear him, of course. She opened a few drawers in her search, but ultimately settled on more paper towels to staunch the steady trickle of blood down her arm. He knew she couldn’t hear her, but it felt wrong not to _ try _ to help, and so Martin tried again. “Cross is upstairs,” he said, and added, “and there’s a first aid kit up there, too.” Bee didn’t appear to hear him, not even a little, but as if by some miracle, she actually made for the stairs. 

“Cross?” she called. “You up here?” When she didn’t receive a response, Bee made her way up the stairs, keeping surprisingly calm in spite of the way the wad of paper towel was quickly turning red. Martin followed her, and reached the top of the stairs in time to see her knock on Cross’s door. A muffled voice inside answered, and Bee slowly opened the door, just enough for both her and Martin to look through. “Cross, where do you keep the first aid kit?” 

“It’s under the counter in the bathroom. Why?” Cross replied, and turned to look at her. It took a second for him to notice her hand, and then he was on his feet, eyes wide. “Shit, Bee, are you okay? What happened?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” she assured him quickly. “I just cut myself doing dishes.”

“Why were you doing dishes?” he asked weakly, gently taking her arm to examine the cut. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Shit, you might need stitches. Come on, let’s get this cleaned up.”

Martin followed them into the bathroom, and lit a cigarette as Cross dug out the first aid kit and got to work. 

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Bee said, her voice soft as Cross put aside the peroxide he’d used to clean the cut. “I’ve had worse, don’t worry.”

“What?” Cross breathed, and for a second he was back in school, back with Gripps and Martin, and Martin was trying not to draw attention to the fresh cigarette burns on his hands, was saying that it wasn’t as bad as it looked, that he didn’t have to worry--

He blinked hard, and Bee must have caught the change in his expression. “Really, it’s okay. I mean, I once had a bruise the size of a melon on my hip after derby, and you won’t believe how many trees I climbed -- and fell out of -- as a kid.”

Cross let out a breath, trying to shake the sick feeling that had settled in his stomach, and focused on bandaging her hand instead. Martin let out a stream of smoke, and closed his eyes. She was okay. 

 

\--

 

It was raining. A strange sort of rain that came down soft and even for a while, interspersed with bouts of downpours that came in sheets of droplets that lashed against the windows. Martin leaned against the windowsill and watched the motorcycle swerve into the driveway to the house, a dark figure hunched over against the rain jogging to the door and fumbling with their keys to get inside. 

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” whispered Bee, the door swinging shut behind her in the wind, making her flinch as it slammed shut. She flipped the lock and walked a few steps, still hunched over with an arm around her stomach, cursing as she undid the laces on her boots and kicked them off onto the mat, and Martin pushed off from the wall, drifting closer and frowning around his forgotten cigarette, the glittering ashes falling to disappear just above the floor. 

“You okay?” he murmured, but she didn’t hear him, just continued muttering to herself and dripping water all over the floor as she squelched in wet socks over the hardwood, first to peek into the living room, pausing to listen intently by the stairs, then checking the kitchen and downstairs bathroom before skittering to her room, the door not quite shutting all the way behind her. 

Martin hesitated. He hadn’t entered the downstairs bedrooms since the two women had moved into them, not wanting to invade their privacy, but his reluctance vanished when he heard Bee yelp. He stepped through the door. 

“Don’t  _ scratch _ me, you ungrateful bratwurst,” said Bee, and Martin stopped mid-step, spotting the orange-haired woman kneeling in the middle of a brightly coloured hooked rug, unzipping her soaked leather jacket. Something small and black tumbled out onto the floor, shaking itself and wobbling on gangly legs, and Martin’s eyebrows rose. 

“A kitten…?” he said, crouching down to get a closer look at the tiny black creature, who was lifting its paws high as it traversed the rug, pausing every few steps to sniff. 

“You’ll have to stay in here, okay?” said Bee, her voice low, and Martin scuttled sideways to avoid being walked through as she leapt to close the door before the kitten could wander out. “They’re already trying to find Rapunzel’s owner, what if they try finding yours, too?” 

Martin narrowed his eyes at her, and swore softly when the kitten swiped at his boot laces. Had she  _ stolen _ the cat? 

“What do you see, kitty?” crooned Bee, coming over and scooping up the kitten, giggling when all four of its paws patted at her hair. “You’re so cute. I can’t imagine why anyone would leave you at the theatre.” 

Martin relaxed. Not a stolen kitten, then. 

“Yes, you’re just the cutest,” said Bee, stroking the kitten’s belly, and got a soft  _ mrrowww _ for her efforts and tiny paws batting at her hand. “My little phantom of the paw-pera.” 

Martin nearly swallowed his cigarette for laughing too hard. 

 

\--

 

“You’re so  _ cute,” _ said Bee, running her fingers through Rapunzel’s ruff. “Look how much  _ hair _ you have! Just like Rapunzel!” The corgi  _ woof _ ed, and she smiled. “Maybe a little shorter than Rapunzel’s hair. Not sure a prince -- or princess, you never know -- could climb a tower with just your fur.” 

Rapunzel offered her a doggy grin and nosed at the pocket of her overalls, and Bee laughed, gently pushing the dog’s nose away. 

“Those aren’t for you,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. “Those are for the kitty.” The corgi whined, unimpressed, and Bee giggled, reaching into her opposite pocket and pulling out a small treat.  _ “These _ are for you. If you’re good. Are you good? Are you a good girl?” 

Rapunzel rested her head on Bee’s knee, staring up at her with imploring black eyes, and Bee fondled the corgi’s ears. 

“You’re  _ so _ good,” she whispered, and gave her the treat. Rapunzel scarfed it down, licking Bee’s hand in thanks, before her ears swiveled and her head followed, a  _ woorrff _ escaping her as she turned to face the street. “What do you see?” Then she smiled, and reached up a hand in a wave. “Hello!”

“Ahoy, there!” said the mailman, strolling up the driveway toward them. “Is she a friendly one, your dog?” 

“She has been so far!” said Bee, and glanced down at Rapunzel, who was still eyeing the mailman intently. “You’ll be polite, won’t you, Rapunzel?” The corgi looked up at her for a moment, as if considering the question, then resumed watching the mailman, her butt firmly planted next to Bee. 

“Hello, there,” said the mailman, pausing at the foot of the steps, and held up a large box. “I need a signature, if your dog don’t mind.” 

“Sure,” said Bee, standing so she could step down to the mailman and scrawl her name on the paper form he offered with the pen he had in hand. “That accent… are you from the South?” 

“Sure am,” said the mailman. “Born and raised. You new in town? I ain’t seen nothin’ but those tall gentlemen here for a while.” 

“Oh, yes, we just moved in,” said Bee, and accepted the package as he took back his paper and pen. “Are you local?” 

“I’m a ways out of the neighborhood,” said the mailman, “but I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.” He reached down and patted Rapunzel on the head before waving goodbye, down the steps before the corgi’s lip could even begin to curl. “Bye, now.” 

“Goodbye,” said Bee, and watched him walk toward the next house -- he was whistling an odd tune, one that she knew was familiar but couldn’t quite place. “What a strange man,” she said to Rapunzel, who had stopped snarling and resumed panting happily at her side. “Come on, let’s get this inside.” Rapunzel followed her into the house, waiting patiently as Bee nudged the door shut with one foot, frowning down at the label. “...Martin?” she said, and shivered, checking that the door had closed firmly -- she could’ve sworn she had felt a draft. “Who’s Martin?...” 

She took the box into the kitchen and looked down at the inquisitive face of the corgi. “How ‘bout some dinner?” she said, and left the box on the kitchen island, moving for the fridge. “There must be something yummy to eat in here somewhere…” 

Bee didn’t see the phantasmal figure leaning over the box to peer at the address, or hear the sharp intake of unneeded breath when the return address was read. Rapunzel’s ears twitched toward the sound, her dark eyes watching the figure slink back to the living room and out of sight. 

_ “Woof,” _ said Rapunzel, but Bee just bent down to scratch behind the corgi’s ears for a second before returning to her hunt through the cupboards. 

\--

 

“Hi, Cross,” said Bee, her eyes fixed on the block of cheddar she was carefully slicing. “Welcome home!” She didn’t see a flush rise in his cheeks as he paused at the kitchen doorway, a messenger bag slung over his shoulder and the tightness around his eyes easing at the sight of her. Rapunzel lifted her head from where she was flopped on the floor, her tail wagging in greeting, and her little legs stretched before she lowered her head to the floor again, ears directed at Bee, ever hopeful for a stray shred of cheese. “Do you want a sandwich? I’m making grilled cheese.” 

“Sure, that’d--” Cross swallowed hard as she turned to grab the loaf of bread from the counter, her long hair sliding off her bare shoulder. “That’d be great.” 

“Oh, you have some voicemails,” she said, eyeing the cheesy residue on the knife blade before shrugging and setting it to the loaf. “Or, I  _ think _ they’re for you…? Who’s  Cristóvão?” 

“Uh,” said Cross, rubbing the back of his neck, “that’s me.” 

Bee looked up at him, quietly mouthing the name again, then said, “Cross for Cristóvão?” 

“Yeah, ha, it’s a long story,” said Cross, and she smiled at him, encouraging. “Well, the shortened version is that when I was little I didn’t want to write all the letters and the accents and everything, so I’d just sign it with an X,” he held up his hands and crossed to fingers to demonstrate, and she giggled at his theatricality, “and my friends thought it was  _ reeeeeal _ funny, so they started calling me Cross, and it stuck.” He paused. “Did you think my  _ mamá _ would name me  _ Cross?” _

Bee shrugged, and Rapunzel’s eyes followed the knife, nose lifting slightly from the floor. The corgi sighed when no treats were forthcoming. “I didn’t want to assume anything,” she said. 

Cross stepped into the kitchen and leaned on the island, watching as she slathered the sides of the bread with butter. “Should I not assume that your full name is Bee, then?” 

Bee glanced up at him, eyes sparkling. “Beatrice,” she said, and he reared back in surprise -- she laughed. “My mom loves Beatrix Potter, you know, the artist? But she thought Beatrix was a little too harsh sounding, so Beatrice it is. I prefer Bee, though, it’s shorter.” 

“Beatrice,” said Cross, and Bee ducked her head, focusing on the food. “That’s real pretty, Bee.” 

“So is Cristóvão,” said Bee, and the blush that had been fading on his cheeks seared red again. 

Cross  _ harrumphed _ and stepped back, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. “I should check those voicemails,” he mumbled, and headed for the little table by the coat rack, where the answering machine lived next to one of the many cordless phones in the house. He glanced back to the kitchen, just in time to see Bee looking away, and he inwardly cursed the butterflies taking residence in his stomach. “She’s your  _ housemate,” _ he muttered to himself, and pressed  _ play _ on the machine. 

_ “Cristóvão, hola, here is a message since you never seem to pick up your  _ phone, _ nieto. Call back soon, will you?” _  The recording ended as the voice trailed off, overrun by muffled shouting in Spanish in the background, and Cross smiled slightly before the grin faded as he sighed, running a hand through his hair. The machine beeped and began the next message, and Cross gripped the edge of the table as a friendly, unfamiliar voice piped out of the speaker. 

_ “Hi, this is Cheryl, I’m calling for Martin about the new job. I think your cell phone might be off? We’ve been trying to get ahold of you… are you still interested in the position? Please give us a call. Have a great day!” _

“Fuck,” said Martin, standing next to him, as Cross bowed his head for a long moment. When he finally straightened, Martin could see a redness to his friend’s eyes, and Cross took a deep breath before deleting the messages. 

“Fuck,” said Cross quietly, echoing Martin, and took a deep breath, turning sharply when he heard a noise to his right. 

“Cross?” said Bee, holding out the box he remembered seeing on the kitchen island. “I almost forgot. Um. This came in the mail and I signed for it before I checked the address, and I think it’s for a previous resident? Should I bring this back to the post office tomorrow when I head to work to see if they have a forwarding address?” 

“Let me see,” said Cross, and the tightness was back around his eyes, his mouth a grim line. Bee handed him the box and he missed her slight frown as he peered at the mailing label. 

“Double fuck,” said Martin, because he could see a shine to Cross’s eyes that had nothing happy in them. He knew that look, knew that the oncoming tears were inevitable, and he forced down his hand that had risen on its own accord to offer his friend comfort. 

He couldn’t do that anymore. 

What made it even worse? It was his fault that Cross was feeling this way. 

“The address is fine,” said Cross, his tone curt, and he was heading up the stairs before Bee could reply, her face stricken as she watched him disappear upstairs. Martin hesitated as Bee remained still as a statue, until Rapunzel wandered out from the kitchen and bumped her nose into Bee’s leg, and Martin left her as she crouched to pat the corgi. 

Cross’s room was empty when Martin reached the door, and he frowned, glancing down the hallway toward the other doors. He took a step forward, wondering if Gripps or Vogel were home and he had missed their arrival, and froze when he heard a muffled sob -- coming from  _ Martin’s _ room. 

He didn’t remember stepping through the door, just knew that a moment later he was standing on his carpet -- realizing absently that he hadn’t been in his room since the accident at all -- and finding Cross sitting on his bed with his head in his hands. 

“Cross,” he said, but his only reply was not-so-muffled sobs.  _ “Cross.” _

Cross sat up, dragging his hands down his tear-streaked face, and Martin was struck by how  _ exhausted _ his friend looked. “Okay,” said Cross, wiping his nose on his sleeve and sniffling before pulling his phone from his pocket, staring at it blankly for a long moment before punching in a number. He waited while it rang, and Martin lit a cigarette, feeling sick. “Hi,” said Cross, when someone answered the line. “This is Cross. I’m returning a call for my-- my friend, Martin. He, uh, he got offered a job at your company.” There was a pause as a tinny voice replied, too quiet for Martin to make out the words, and Cross sniffled quietly before saying, “I understand, ah-- He’s-- He was--” 

Martin found himself standing in the hall, his cigarette nearly spent and a heavy weight in his chest. “Dammit,” he said with a hitch in his voice. 

He hated seeing Cross in so much pain. Hated that he had left such a mess for his friends to clean up on his behalf. Hated that he couldn’t  _ be _ there for them. 

“Thank you for understanding,” he heard Cross say, and leaned through the door, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it before the other was even done, inhaling deeply with the new one in hand. Cross was staring at the phone in his hand again, and Martin let the cigarette butt fall to vanish on the floor, stepping back into the room and leaning against his desk. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, even though Cross was oblivious to his presence, and he breathed out a stream of smoke as Cross set his phone next to him on the bed, took a deep breath, and lifted the box onto his lap. Keys from his pocket made short work of the tape sealing it shut, and Cross pried open the flaps to get at the contents. He pulled out a mound of slightly fuzzy fabric and swore softly when it unfolded and a small white envelope landed on his lap. Cross let the sweater drape over the box, picking up the envelope, and Martin moved closer so he could read over Cross’s shoulder, careful not to touch. 

_“Please give my other son a hug from me and tell him to call his_ _mamá_ _more often,”_ the card read, in looping cursive that Martin remembered from grocery lists and Christmas cards, familiar in a way that made him long for homemade tamales and red and yellow fairy lights strung around a candlelit kitchen. 

“Oh,” said Cross, and started to cry again, shoulders shaking with the force of his sobs, the card curling in his hand. Martin sat next to him on the bed -- the comforter didn’t even dent at his weight, and the irony of the blanket’s name was not lost on him, as neither he or the blanket could offer any comfort to Cross.

“Cross?” 

Martin lifted his head as Cross did the same, both of them teary-eyed as they saw Gripps standing at the partially opened door, his dark eyes worried. 

“Hey,” said Cross, and his voice cracked on the lone syllable. Gripps was across the room in an instant, taking the box from Cross and setting it on the bed before sitting next to his friend -- Martin edged sideways to avoid being sat on -- wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close. “I miss him so much, Gripps,” he said, his voice watery and muffled from how his face was smushed into Gripps’ sweater. “I  _ miss _ him.” 

“I know,” said Gripps softly, rocking him gently. “I miss him, too.” They sat for a while, until Cross could breathe without sobbing uncontrollably, and Gripps patted his back. “Do you remember,” he said, and paused as Cross sniffled loudly, “the day we met Martin?” 

“Of course,” said Cross, turning his head so he wasn’t inhaling more fibers from Gripps’ sweater. “Lil punk kid.” 

“You were a little punk kid,” Gripps reminded him, and Cross laughed. 

“Yeah, but he was  _ so _ punk,” said Cross. “Those kids were picking on us, remember? Big ol’ Billy and his gang of miscreants.” 

“That was them,” said Gripps. “Billy got a good hit on you, and then  _ boom,  _ he was on the ground, and this skinny little kid with white hair and a baseball bat was standing on his back, howling like he had a wolf in his lungs.” 

“He was goddammed beautiful,” said Cross, and Martin let out a snort. 

He remembered that day. It had been the first sunny day in weeks -- so many days of rain that the rivers had flooded and the lakes rose an inch, and all the old men gossiping at the pizza parlour were predicting an end to the seemingly endless drought -- so Martin had gone to the park after school, hoping to find someone to play baseball with. There had been bruises forming under his shirt, and a few more on his arms, courtesy of his dad’s temper when Martin hadn’t gotten out of the house fast enough, and he’d been full of an uncontrollable rage with nowhere to direct the fury boiling in his chest. 

Then he’d seen the local teen gang, the ones that knew better than to cross him, all of them crowded around a skinny kid and his burlier friend. The skinny kid was on the ground but was already scrambling to his feet with an angry shout as Martin drew close, and that fury bubbled over into a howl that left his throat raw and his hands sore from the force of the swing of his bat connecting with Billy’s unsuspecting back. 

The gang had dispersed in short order, once they realized there were three angry punks raring to fight instead of two -- and one of them was  _ armed, _ the fucker -- and Martin had watched them haul Billy’s groaning ass down the street as fast as their baggy jeans could take them, lungs burning and still twitchy with some wild energy. 

_ I know you, _ Cross had said, a black eye already spreading on his face and a wide grin beneath it.  _ You’re in my math class, right? _

_ Your ma is gonna whup your ass, _ Gripps had said, seeing Cross’s black eye, and saw the way Martin’s hands tightened on his bat, and the bruises on his arms.  _ Not for real, man, she ain’t like that. C’mon, you should meet her. She’ll like you. _

Martin had hesitated -- those two kids were strangers to him, and he didn’t know the area well -- but there was something about them, something that put him at ease and made him feel  _ safe. _

Cross’s mom had taken one look at their bruised, grinning faces, and ushered them all inside for a stern talking-to about getting hurt in fights, and plates of food for all of them. Cross had explained in exaggerated detail how Martin had come to their rescue -- which he denied, since he hadn’t  _ rescued _ them, not really, just helped scare off the bullies -- and Cross’s mom had wrapped him in the softest hug he had had since his mom had died. 

“Do you remember what he said?” said Gripps, drawing Martin back to the present. 

“Yeah,” said Cross. “‘You may be a bunch of little shits, but you fight okay.’” 

“And what did he say after?” prompted Gripps. 

“‘We gotta take care of each other,’” said Cross, and didn’t hear the words echoed by Martin. “Yeah, I’m tryin’--”

“Cross,” said Gripps, taking him by the arms and pushing him gently upright so he could meet his eyes, “that means we take care  _ of each other. _ It ain’t all on you to take care of  _ us. _ You gotta let us take care of  _ you, _ too. _ ”  _

Cross’s phone buzzed, jittering on the bedspread, and Cross wiggled an arm free enough to pick it up, leaning into Gripps as he checked the caller ID. “It’s  _ abuela,” _ he said, voice hoarse, and Gripps squeezed him gently. 

“Will you be alright taking the call?” he said, and Cross shrugged. “I can answer, if you want.” 

Cross looked down at the ringing phone, then wiped his eyes. “It’s okay,” he said. “I should-- I should take this.” Gripps started to stand, and Cross curled his fingers into Gripps’ sleeve. “Can you--” 

“Sure,” said Gripps, and sat back down, wrapping an arm around his friend as Cross answered the call. 

_ “Hola, abuela,” _ he said, his voice only quavering a little, and Martin lit another cigarette, leaning as close to Gripps as he dared so he could listen to the tinny, accented voice filtering through the phone’s speakers. “Sorry for missing your calls.” 

_ “Nieto, you are always forgiven,” _ came the voice, and Martin sighed -- oh, how he missed Cross’s family.  _ His _ family, if he was honest -- more than his own blood relatives.  _ “Why do you not call your  _ _ mamá, sweetheart? She wants to know if Martin got his package yet, and he’s not answering his phone either. If everything okay with you boys?” _

Cross swallowed hard, a little, broken noise escaping him, and Martin found himself standing, walking toward the door and lighting a cigarette on autopilot. 

He couldn’t bear the tears, the renewed sobs from behind him as he stood by the door, chest  _ aching _ with a desire to turn around and go sit on the bed next to Cross, to hold him tight and promise that everything would work out as long as they were together. They were  _ family. _ Any challenge that came at them, they could tackle head on, with baseball bats in hand, if need be. 

But they weren’t together anymore. 

And it was his fault. 

Martin was lighting a new cigarette by the time he focused back in on the conversation, the soft mix of English and Spanish both a balm and a thorn to his aching heart. They’d be okay without him. They  _ had _ to be. Gripps was crying, too, tears falling silently down his cheeks and dripping onto Cross’s shirt, not that either of them seemed to care. 

“I’m sorry,” Cross was saying, wiping his reddened nose on an already damp sleeve. “ _ Mamá _ , I will call next time. I’m sorry.” 

“Guys?” said Vogel, stepping through Martin before the white-haired man registered that the door was opening, and shivered once before stepping further into the room. “Are you okay?” 

“Yes, I love you, too,  _ mamá,” _ said Cross. “I’ll call you soon.” He lowered the phone, managing a watery smile. “Hey, Vogel.” 

Vogel looked at him, then Gripps, his expression determined, and that was their only warning before he launched himself at them, arms spread, tackling them backwards onto the bed and curling his arms around them. Cross groaned and Gripps grunted as a bony elbow landed in his side, but Vogel just wiggled a little until everyone was comfortable and then stilled, the three of them just laying on the bed, breathing deeply and clinging to each other. 

“I miss him, too,” said Vogel, his voice solemn, and Martin sat down hard on the floor, his back against the side of the bed, his jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut -- it didn’t stop the tears from leaking, falling in sparkling droplets that vanished just as the ashes of his cigarettes did. “I just want him back.” He sniffled, and Cross patted his back. “It’s supposed to be all  _ four _ of us. Together.”

“We all miss him,” said Gripps, and tightened his hold around the younger man. “It’ll be okay. It  _ has _ to be.” 

Martin sucked in a breath but it didn’t help the suffocating feeling pressing him down, constricting lungs that didn’t need air anymore. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, but they couldn’t hear him, and it wasn’t enough. Sorrys would never be enough. 

Gripps shifted on the bed and Martin lifted his head, wiping his nose and cursing whatever part of the universe that had decided that ghost crying involved the same amount of tears and snot as human crying did. “Hey,” said Gripps softly, “come on in.” 

Bee was standing in the doorway, a plate gripped in her hands, and Martin could smell toasted cheese from across the room. “I can come back later,” she whispered, but Gripps was already shaking his head. 

“C’mere,” he said, beckoning her to join them, and Martin moved out of her way as she drew closer. 

“Get in here,” said Vogel, freeing an arm and reaching up to offer her a hand. “Cuddle puddle?” 

“Um,” she said, lifting the plate in her hands a little, and he flapped his hand at her. 

“You’re fine, d’you wanna hug?” 

Bee glanced at the plate in her hand, then back at the three pairs of eyes watching her. “I was just--” she started, the plate lifting again, “I was just bringing you this.” 

“Thank you,” said Cross, his eyes soft. “I’d take it, but, ummmm…” He wiggled his fingers, which was the only free part of his arms. 

“Cuddle puddle,” said Vogel again, as if in explanation. “‘s nice. Especially when there’s too many feelings.”

“There’s always a lot of feelings, Vogel,” said Gripps. “Remember this morning?”

“Sometimes it’s important to know how your cereal feels about being eaten!” he said, and Cross snorted. 

“If your cereal is sentient, I think we need to have a talk about what kind you’ve been buying,” he said drily, but he was smiling, and Martin thought he could breathe again. “Bee?” 

“Yeah?” she said, her voice softer than Cross’s eyes, and Vogel wiggled his fingers at her.

“Last chance,” he said. “I promise it’s suuuuper comfy and I don’t bite. Neither does Gripps.” 

“Oh?” said Bee, raising her eyebrows at Cross. “What about you?” 

Martin climbed onto the bed and sat on the pillows, and with his vantage point was gifted with the sight of the perfect tomato hue that was spreading up Cross’s neck toward his cheeks. “He’ll bite,” he said to Bee -- not that she could hear him, anyway -- “but only if you ask him to.” 

“Jus’ get in here,” muttered Cross, and Bee flopped on top of him next to Vogel, the younger man wrapping an arm around her waist to keep her from slipping sideways as Cross let out an  _ ooof. _ Martin laughed as the grilled cheese on her plate nearly slid onto the comforter, but Vogel’s quick fingers snatched it before it could slide too far. 

“Careful,” wheezed Cross, and Bee patted his shoulder awkwardly. “Did the sandwich make it?” 

Bee opened her mouth to reply, but paused as she heard the unmistakable noise of teeth sinking into crisply toasted bread. “Vogel!!” 

“Wow, this is really good,” said Vogel, and yelped when Cross’s nimble fingers wriggled against his side. “Hey, no tickling!” 

“You  _ thief,” _ said Cross, snagging his sandwich when Vogel rolled to avoid his fingers and shoving it into his mouth, glaring at the younger laughing man for a moment before his eyes closed with bliss. “Wow,” he mumbled through the mouthful of bread and cheese, “thiff iv  _ amazing.” _

“Were you raised in a  _ barn?” _ said Gripps, from under Vogel’s arm. 

“Thank you?” said Bee. “I think.” 

“Thank  _ you,” _ said Cross, and neither of them seemed to notice how close their faces were to each other. 

“More hugs, less talk,” complained Vogel, and the four of them laid there on the bed, with a ghost watching over them, until a door slammed downstairs and the muffled  _ I’m hoooome _ of Amanda rang out. 

“Hey, anybody home?” called Amanda, her boots heavy on the stairs, and a moment later she poked her head into the room, her hair plastered to her face and her jacket glistening. “Did anyone know it was raining?” she said, then paused. “Are you guys okay? Am I interrupting something?” 

Bee and Vogel both held out a hand, and Amanda grinned, stripping off her wet jacket before launching herself on top of them, laughing when both Cross and Gripps groaned in unison. 

“Good thing this bed is sturdy,” muttered Cross. Amanda grinned, her wet hair dripping onto his face and making him groan again. 


	7. In Which a Kitten is Found and there is some Unrelated Anxiety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a brief description of an anxiety attack in this chapter. If you would prefer to skip it, read up to _Welcome to the family_ and then continue to the next chapter.

Amanda groaned, pulling the blanket tighter around herself and heaved herself off of the sofa, trudging into the kitchen and muttering to herself. “Worst ever,” was the only audible phrase Martin could catch as he wandered after her, humming absently to himself as he watched her dig through first the fridge and then the cupboard next to it, his humming accented by her increasingly irritated grumbling. “Never any _cookies,”_ she complained, lifting the lid of the cookie jar and finding it empty. “Why are there never _any_ _cookies?_ Who was on cookie duty?” She paused, brow furrowing as she considered her own question, then sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat as she replaced the lid on the beehive jar. “Me. I was on cookie duty. Dammit, I forgot.” 

Martin leaned against the kitchen island, watching as she continued muttering for a bit before opening and closing all the cupboards. The blanket continuously slipped off her arms when she lifted them during her search, and she had to keep tugging it back around herself -- Martin caught himself smiling slightly at the sight. It was… rather endearing. 

“Oh my God,” she breathed, emerging from the snack cupboard holding her prize aloft, and Martin’s eyes widened when he saw a roll of Oreos in her hand. 

“Oh, no, you  _ don’t,” _ he growled, but she was already scurrying out of the kitchen, the Oreos clasped in the hand not already holding her blanket -- which was resembling a cloak with the speed at which she was moving -- and he growled low in his throat as he followed her up the stairs. 

“Hello?” she said, poking her head first in Cross’s room, then continuing to Gripps’, where she found the two of them sprawled on the bed while Vogel was spread out on the floor like a starfish. All three of them lifted their heads to look at her in unison, and she let out a small laugh, holding up the packet of cookies. “Uh, hi. Sorry to interrupt, but, can I eat these?” 

“Oreos,” said Vogel, his tone wistful, and looked to his friends on the bed. “Yeah?” 

Cross grimaced. “Oh, those are…” he began, then shook his head with a sigh. “ Yeah, no, go ahead,” he said. “We can stock up on the next grocery run.” 

“Thank you,” said Amanda gratefully, already prying at the packaging as she left the room in a swirl of her blanket-cloak. Martin fumed, lighting a cigarette and blowing a stream of smoke at Cross before following her downstairs. 

“Those are mine, you know,” he said, glaring at her with his arms cross, ethereal smoke curling around his ears.  _ “Mine.”  _

Not that he could eat them, he groused. Being dead and all. Martin threw himself onto the sofa next to Amanda, wishing he could actually feel the cushions, and seethed quietly as Amanda munched her way through the entire packet of Oreos. 

“So good,” she whispered, as Rapunzel pattered in from the hall -- from Bee’s room, Martin could only assume -- and the corgi nudged at Amanda’s socked foot, poking out from under the blanket, until the dark-haired woman sighed and bent down to scoop up the corgi, hauling her up into her lap. “You’re so heavy,” complained Amanda, but sighed in subtle relief when Rapunzel sprawled across her lap, pressed against her stomach like a fuzzy hot water bottle. “You’re cute, though. And warm. I really hope no one calls to take you home.” 

She popped the last Oreo into her mouth, and Rapunzel whined as Martin grumbled, “You’re  _ welcome.” _ Amanda crumpled up the empty packet and tossed it toward the coffee table -- it fell short, landing on the floor with a crinkle of plastic unfurling, and Martin swore when he saw the dark crumbs spill onto the carpet. 

“Would you  _ shut up?” _ said Amanda, and the cigarette fell out of his mouth, vanishing when he failed to catch it as he turned his head, shocked. “You’re such a whiner dog,” said Amanda, and Martin sank back into the sofa cushions. 

Of course. She was talking to the  _ dog. _

“Maybe you’re a wiener dog,” Amanda murmured, rubbing Rapunzel’s ears, and the corgi tipped her head, winking at Martin as she reveled in the attention from Amanda. “Whiner dog, wiener dog. You kind of look like a sausage, anyway.” 

_ “Woof,” _ said Rapunzel, as if taking offense, and Amanda laughed, rubbing the corgi’s offered belly in apology. 

“Cutest sausage dog,” she whispered, and Rapunzel and Martin sighed in unison. 

“You better have enjoyed those Oreos,” he grumbled, and Amanda frowned down at the corgi in her lap, her fingers pausing in their gentle massaging of the corgi’s ruff. 

“You can’t talk, can you?” said Amanda, frowning at Rapunzel, who only gave her a doggy grin in response.    
I could’ve sworn…” She discreetly pushed at the corgi’s rear legs, nodding to herself, then narrowed her eyes at the dog. “You’re not possessed by the ghost of some guy, are you? Because that would be a little creepy.” 

“Fucking rude,” muttered Martin, and she glanced at him --  _ through _ him, her eyes searching the hallway for a moment before she huddled deeper into her blanket, Rapunzel rolling to accommodate the sudden shift of her own perch. 

“Maybe the boys are being loud,” whispered Amanda, and Rapunzel was watching her intently. “You think? Or just the wind?” 

“Can you hear me?” said Martin, but Amanda just sighed and reached for the television remote, and Martin sank back against the cushions, resigned to watching  _ Hell’s Kitchen _ and being fucking  _ invisible _ again. 

He really should get used to it. 

 

\--

 

The buzzing in his ears hadn’t let up for hours, a soft keening that sounded oddly like Cross had been crying -- Martin had checked his friend’s bedroom, twice, and he was definitely not there -- and the noise only stopped half an hour before Cross finally arrived home -- hours late from his usual work schedule, not that Martin had been waiting anxiously by the door, no, of course not. Martin had followed the taller man through the house as Cross shoved his coat into the closet -- rather than the coat rack, an odd choice, as usually only Martin bothered to keep his coats there -- and through the kitchen as Cross made himself a sandwich -- which was even weirder, as it was a tuna melt, which Martin loved but Cross usually would pass on -- before trudging up to his room with a glass of orange juice -- Vogel’s -- and the sandwich on a plate. 

All in all, it was a very strange occurrence. 

Cross fell asleep sprawled on the bed -- the orange juice finished but the glass abandoned with the dregs amidst the pillows -- and the half-finished sandwich left of his head. “You’re gonna wake up with a face full of cheese,” said Martin, and Cross just snored. Martin sighed and left the room, switching off the light out of habit, and pausing halfway down the stairs when he realized his fingers hadn’t gone through the switch even a little bit. 

Weird. 

Something moved at the bottom of the stairs and Martin stepped to the side to avoid it, swearing as it moved and he stepped  _ through _ it -- or rather, through a  _ kitten _ \-- instead. 

The kitten squeaked and Martin yelped, jumping sideways again and swearing as the kitten spun in a circle, batting at the air when she found nothing there. “Sorry,” he said, and she  _ mroww _ ed at him accusingly. “I said sorry,” he grumbled, and crouched down to scritch her back. “Didn’ mean to tread on you, darlin’. Are you supposed to be out here?” 

_ “Woof!” _ Rapunzel raced across the room on her tiny legs, claws clicking on the hardwood, and skidded sideways to stop next to Martin, lapping at his hand and whining when he didn’t immediately cease petting the kitten and give her attention instead. 

“You jealous, princess?” said Martin, and switched hands so he could pet both of them at once, his ghostly fingers carding through their respective fur. Rapunzel flopped to the floor and offered her belly and the kitten purred, settling on the floor next to her, and Martin petted them until he felt unreasonably tired and had to stop, sitting back and breathing heavily through his nose until the lightheadedness went away. 

By the time he had opened eyes he hadn’t realized had closed, both kitten and dog had abandoned him for the pleasure of pulling the flannel blanket off of the sofa where someone had left it the night before and burrowing under it after each other. Rapunzel’s butt was poking out from under one end, and a little lump was wriggling this way and that just ahead of a lump that Martin could only guess was the dog’s head, since it lined up with the sausage shape of the rest of her.

Rapunzel lunged forward and the lump that was the kitten darted to the side, the entire blanket and its combined eight-legged contents surging into the coffee table, a corgi’s butt’s worth of weight knocking it just enough to send a coffee mug over the edge to thump to the floor, right through Martin’s outstretched hand when he reached to grab it. Miraculously it didn’t break, but Rapunzel tossed her head to free it of the blanket, her ears swiveling toward the stairs as the sound of a door swinging open and hurried footsteps reached them. 

“Who’s there?” called Cross, and Rapunzel  _ woof _ ed a hello. “Rapunzel, I  _ just _ took you out,” sighed Cross, and started down the stairs, reaching for the vibrant pink leash hanging from the last coat hook -- Gripps’ choice of purchase, and there were little embroidered roses along its length. “I swear, if you just want to go out and sniff the roses again--” Cross paused beside the sofa, the leash dangling from his hand, and looked down at blanket. Rapunzel looked up at him with a wide doggy grin, her stubby tail wagging, and a clearly unconnected shape worming its way toward the edge of the blanket. “What do we have here…?” 

Cross leaned down and lifted the edge of the blanket, and the kitten launched herself at his hand, latching on with all four paws and nipping at his wrist.  _ “Mierda,” _ he said, and gripped the kitten around her middle, carefully dislodging her before her claws could get too deep in his skin. “Who are  _ you, _ little demon?” he said, and kitten chirped at him. “How did you get in here?” 

A key turned in the lock, and Cross straightened, Rapunzel wiggling out from under the blanket and bounding for the door, barking repeatedly until the door opened to allow Bee inside. 

“Bee!” said Cross, and she startled, the door slamming shut harder than it looked like she had intended, and her multi-colour eyes widened when she saw what he was holding. 

“I can explain,” she said, and Cross sighed, cradling the kitten to his chest with one hand so he could reach up to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

“Why is there a cat?” he said, and Bee’s face fell. 

“Are you mad?” she said softly. 

Cross was quiet for a long moment that had Martin reaching for his cigarettes on instinct as Cross let go of his nose to instead run his fingers through his hair. “I’m not mad, but…a cat, Bee?” 

“Oh, no, are you allergic?” said Bee, a horrified expression spreading over her already distraught face. “Is Vogel or Gripps…?” 

“No, no, none of us are allergic,” said Cross. “But we’ve… we’ve already got Rapunzel, and if we’d talked about this beforehand…” 

“I’m so sorry,” said Bee. “I--I should have asked, I’m sorry, but it was an  _ emergency.”  _ When Cross said nothing, she stumbled on, “It’s-- she’s justa stray from work, and she looked sick and I didn’t know what else to do.” 

Cross looked down at the kitten, eyes narrowing for an instant before he yelped as the kitten sank her tiny baby teeth into his hand. “Here,” he said, holding out the kitten, and Bee quickly extracted the claws from his skin and cuddled the kitten to her chest. “Where have you been  _ keeping _ that little monster?” 

“In my room,” said Bee. Martin thought he heard a muttered  _ and she’s not a monster, _ but he couldn’t be sure. “I should… put her back in there.” 

“So she doesn’t get eaten by  _ this _ mutt,” said Cross, nudging Rapunzel’s side with his socked foot, and followed her up the hall. Martin stubbed out his cigarette -- it vanished, as they always did -- and followed them. “Does… she eat much? Where does she, uh…” 

“Shit?” said Bee drily, and Cross managed a sheepish grin as she opened the door to her room. “Here, come on in, I’ll show you.” 

Even Martin had to admit that Bee had a good setup -- a box for kitty litter in the corner of the room, and on the opposite side, by the bookcase, was a set of food dishes, and there were little cat toys strewn all over the floor. There was a cat bed, too, but there was more fur on one of the pillows of her bed than on the actual cat bed. 

Cross had only given the cat things a cursory look, however, when he saw the bedroom wall, opposite the bed. “Oh,” he said softly, and Bee glanced at him, eyes wide. 

“It was okay to paint the walls, right?” she said, her fingers tugging at the hem of her shirt, picking at the hole that was already torn there. 

“It’s beautiful,” said Cross, turning back to her, and there was an awed look on his face. “This is  _ beautiful, _ Bee. Did you design this yourself?” He turned back to the wall before she could answer, tracing the painted limbs of the tree, each individual whorled leaf. “This is amazing.” 

“Thank you…?” said Bee. “I-- it was sort of practice for a set design I did for the theatre, and I--” 

Cross choked. “The  _ what,”  _ he said, and Martin lit another cigarette, watching them closely. “The theatre? In town? At the square?” Bee nodded, eyes wide, and Cross began to laugh. “Oh, my god,” he wheezed, “you’re the set designer.” 

“...Yes?” she said. “Cross, are you okay?” 

Cross waved her off, still laughing. “I’m the  _ director,” _ he said, and she stared at him blankly. “The theatre  _ director. _ At the  _ theatre.” _

Bee stared at him. “You’re the  _ director?” _ she said, and started to laugh as well. “We’ve been working at the same place for a week and didn’t even know it?” she said, and laughed harder. “That’s just too  _ perfect.” _

“Oh,  _ shit,” _ said Cross. “You’re the one who’s been making those fucking delicious cupcakes! I’ve never eaten so many cupcakes in a week in my  _ life!” _ He narrowed his eyes at her. “Those  _ were _ yours, right? The cute ones with beehive frosting and the little bees on them?” She grinned at him, and he groaned.  _ “Bees. _ Of  _ course. _ ” He sighed. “This is that blasted cat from work, isn’t it.” 

“She didn’ have a real place to sleep, an’ she weren’t eating enough,” said Bee, too fast, the words blurring together, and Cross shook his head, smiling slightly. 

“It’s fine,” he said, running his hand through his hair and glancing away. “I’m sorry, I-- I overreacted. Of  _ course _ she can stay. I’m sorry, Bee, I’ve just been under a lot of stress. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” 

“You’re forgiven,” said Bee, “as long as we can keep Finn.” 

“Finn?” 

Bee pointed at the bed, where the kitten in question was burrowing under the covers. “She’s like a little shark, see? She sneaks around under the blankets and then pounces. All she needs is a little fin and she’d be a perfect Jaws.” 

“A little fin,” repeated Cross, and he grinned. “Finn it is. Welcome to the family, Finn.” 

 

\--

 

Someone was... crying?

Martin followed the muffled, indistinct sounds to the downstairs bathroom — the one with the nice claw foot bathtub, the best one for baths — and stepped through the doorway, freezing when he realized what he'd done, and that the bathroom was, in fact, occupied.

Amanda was shivering, wrapped in a towel and sitting on the floor with her arms wrapped around her knees, and she was _shaking._ Martin hesitated — she _had_ accused him of watching them shower, which he _hadn’t,_ but she seemed upset, and no one else would be home for another hour yet.

“Amanda?” he said, but she didn’t respond. He could hear snuffling breaths, as if she was trying not to cry, and he crouched in front of her, shifting from foot to foot. “Amanda,” he said again, louder, but there was no response, and he sighed, realizing she couldn’t hear him. He reached out to touch her arm, but his fingers brushed _through_ her skin, and he yanked his hand back when she startled, her head lifting to reveal eyes red from crying and a tear-stained face.

“What the fuck,” she whispered, eyes darting around the room, glancing at the door twice before she hauled herself up, padding the few steps over to test that it was still locked. “Hey, Mr. Ghost, if you’re in here, no offense, but fuck off.” She sniffled again, wiping her nose on her arm. “Unless you’ve got a thing about seeing girls cry, and then maybe we should have a serious talk.”

Martin paused. She _had_ told him to leave, but... she was also sinking back into herself, a fresh well of tears in her eyes, and she sniffled, loudly, as he moved toward the door.

"Okay, whatever," she muttered. "Stay or go, I don't care. I—" Martin stopped, halfway through the door — and wasn't _that_ a weird feeling — and looked down at her. "I— Please don't go."

Martin sat down on the floor, legs crossed, resting his hands on his knees. If he stretched his fingers, he could just brush her knee, and he did, pulling back when she shivered.

"That means you're still here, right?" she said. He tapped her knee again, and she let out a soft laugh. "That's really fucking cold, buddy. You should get some gloves, or something."

Martin felt himself smile, just a little, before it faded. This was wrong. He shouldn't be in a bathroom with a nearly naked girl who couldn't see him, who had initially wanted him gone—

"Thanks for staying," she whispered, and she was crying again.

And he couldn't _do_ anything.

Fuck.

"I just—" Amanda took in a shaky breath, glancing at him — _through_ him — and he held his breath, waiting. "I—" She hiccupped. "Being anxious fucking _sucks."_

Martin let out the breath he was holding and swore softly. "I'm sorry," he said, voice soft, not that she could hear him. He fished out his pack of cigarettes and tapped one out, lighting it as Amanda wiped at her eyes again, her wet hair dripping on the tile floor. He was sitting in water, but his pants weren't wet, and it was _weird._ He breathed out a puff of smoke, and a moment later she sniffed, eyes narrowing, tears still running down her face.

"Are you _smoking?"_ she said, and Martin nearly choked on his cigarette. "You asshole, and I can't even bum one off of you."

"Sorry," he said again, and tried to aim the smoke away from her.

"You're still a jerk," she muttered, and he shrugged. "But, uh, I am. Glad you stayed, that is." They sat in silence for a while, Amanda sniffling and picking at the frayed edge of her towel, and Martin puffing through first one cigarette, and then another, because when he finished the first, he looked over and saw the gleam of tear tracks down her face, and he couldn't breathe for a moment for how much it hurt to see her hurting.

She didn't know him. He didn't know _her._

He just knew that he hated to see her cry.

"You still there?" she said, when her hair was starting to frizz as it dried, and the steam was starting to fade from the mirror. Martin looked at her for a moment, then reached over and touched her hand where it gripped the towel. She startled, eyes widening, and her white-knuckled grip on the towel eased as he pulled back. "Oh. You are."

"Y'want me to leave?" he said, but she didn't hear him, didn't answer. She took a deep, shuddery breath, and he hesitated.

He should... go.

"I, uh, didn't know this place was haunted when we agreed to stay here," she said, and wiped her eyes again. Her shoulders were less hunched, and Martin quickly looked away when he realized she had let the towel slip, and it was doing very little to cover the curves of her breasts. "I don't... didn't really think much on whether ghosts exist, you know? But... here you are. Unless I'm just, fuck, hallucinating or some shit." She wiped her eyes, but they were just red, no more tears, and when she breathed in again it was less shaky. "Then I saw you."

"You did," he whispered. She _had._ He thought he'd imagined the bright brown of her eyes catching his gaze, the shock of being _seen._ "You saw me."

"Sort of saw you," she amended. "I mean, that also could've been a hallucination. Some tall guy standing by the window, _definitely_ there, and then _poof!_ Gone." She waved a hand to demonstrate the _poof,_ and Martin leaned back to avoid getting whacked in the face. "Oh, shit, sorry," she said, and yanked her towel up, unaware that Martin had resolutely directed his gaze over her head to avoid getting an eyeful as the towel pooled on the floor. "Geez, sorry. Fuck. Um, Ghost, maybe you could, uh. Wait outside, or something. I should get dressed. Yeah."

Martin lit another cigarette and waited outside the bathroom, listening to the litany of muttered curses from within as Amanda wrestled with her clothes and then her hair, cursing louder when her brush caught in the tangles. He closed his eyes, swallowing hard past the lump in his throat.

Just because she had seen him once didn't mean anything.

Didn't make him any less dead.

"Ghost?"

Martin's eyes snapped open, and he pushed away from the wall. Amanda stood, framed in the bathroom doorway, hair a wild mess pouring over her shoulders and her eyeliner back in place like war paint.

"You still there?" she said, but she was looking down the hallway, past him, and — fuck. Her shoulders were curling in as she hugged herself, fingers digging into the leather of her jacket, head turning as she looked down the hall both ways. "Ghost?"

"Right here."

Amanda's head whipped around, eyes wide, looking through him. "Did you—"

—

The front door slammed, and Martin breathed in, finding himself standing next to it, watching as Bee kicked off her boots, humming a somewhat familiar tune under her breath. He breathed out, a stream of smoke, and she wrinkled her nose as she straightened.

"Someone's... smoking?" she said to herself, and Martin frowned at the lit cigarette in his hand. "Who the hell is smoking _cigarettes_ indoors?"

He was forgetting something.

Something _important._

"Hmm," said Bee, and went into the kitchen, poking through the fridge and muttering words he couldn't quite grasp — there was that ringing in his ears again, that incessant, infernal _beeping_ — before slamming the fridge door shut.

_That_ woke him up.

"Amanda," he said, and Bee ignored him, oblivious of him standing in the doorway to the kitchen, half-burnt cigarette still caught between two fingers. "Amanda needs... help."

Bee moved to the cupboard, and Martin stuck the cigarette between his teeth, breathing out a stream of smoke and taking in the kitchen. It was nearly spotless, surprisingly — who had been the last to cook? He couldn't remember — but there _was_ a container of salt, sitting next to the still-empty salt shaker. Cardboard container, a little aluminum spigot, tapped shut — perfect.

Martin reached for it—

—and swore when his hand passed through, tingling in an unpleasant manner that didn't fade until he had backed away, shaking his hand and swearing repeatedly. It _stung._

Fucking _salt._

Martin blew on his fingers, tossing the cigarette butt to the floor and lighting another, eyes narrowing as Bee paused to sniff the air again, shaking her head before pulling a box of pasta from the cupboard. She left it on the counter, moving to get a pot, and Martin glowered at the off-balance box, furious.

Amanda needed help, and he couldn't _help_ her—

Martin yelped, hand flying up to press against his head when pain spiked through his skull, and the box tipped over.

The box fell, slowly, so slowly, hitting the floor with a dull noise muted by the beeping in his ears that had sped up, a host of worried, indecipherable voices clamoring—

"The fuck?" said Bee, and Martin coughed, the noise fading down to a manageable level, and she crouched down to scoop up the box, frowning at the scattered pasta shells on the floor. "How did...?"

Martin dropped into a crouch, spotting a far-flung piece of pasta, and flicked it, sending it skittering across the floor in front of Bee, who leapt to her feet, eyes wide as she spun.

"What—" she said, and Martin sent another stray shell toward the door. Bee chased after it, pausing to pick it up, and it took Martin a moment before he could stand to follow her. He was so _tired._ Why was he so tired?

Martin took a deep breath and followed Bee to the living room, where she dropped the pasta right before rushing down the hall toward her room.

"Manda?" she said, and Martin managed a smile.

Good. Amanda would be okay. She had Bee.

It would be okay...


	8. In Which there is a Nightmare and then More Cupcakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's where the very brief description of graphic violence comes in. :') 
> 
> Also they eat a lot of cupcakes.

Cross laughed, waving goodbye to their friend Hobbs and pushed the door open, grinning at the prospect of going home and sleeping off the long week — he hadn’t slept much the night before, and he could hear the siren call of his warm bed. Brakes squealed, loud and sharp, followed by a thud and a dog barking, and Cross turned toward the noise, the smile sliding from his face when he saw a car speeding off and a small dog licking at a figure crumpled on the asphalt.

Dazed blue eyes met his for a brief moment, before falling shut.

There was blood.

So much blood.

Spreading out from under white hair, stained a sticky red in seconds, too much blood, too fast.

“No,” said Cross, the word falling from his lips as he ran into the street, pushing the dog — some sort of corgi, he noted absently — away from his friend, dropping to his knees and swearing softly at the terrible stillness of the white-haired man and the blood that just kept pooling out from under his head. “No, no, no, no,” he whispered, checking for a pulse and finding one, weak but _there,_ and a sob escaped him when Martin didn’t even twitch at his touch. “This isn’t happening.”

Cross dug his phone from his pocket with shaking fingers, trying to dial and failing twice before managing to tap the correct three numbers, breathing hard as it rang and choking on a sob. The operator answered, and it took him too long of a moment to get his voice under control.

“I need an ambulance,” he said, but the words weren’t coming out right, and the blood was spreading faster, soaking into the fabric of his pants, staining his hands red when he tried to reach for Martin, the dog was barking and there was so much blood and he couldn’t breathe and Martin wasn't breathing and he couldn't think straight because Martin was _dead—_

_“WOOF.”_

Cross’s eyes snapped open and he sat up bolt right, the blanket falling to his lap as he gasped for breath. The barking continued, and he turned his head to see Rapunzel’s head peeking up over the edge of his bed, the little dog stretched up and not quite long enough to get her paws on the top of the mattress. “Rapunzel?” he whispered, his voice breaking, and she barked again, sharp and loud. “Shh, you’re gonna wake everyone up,” he said, and she whined. He reached down to scratch her ears and she licked his hand, watching him with dark eyes that seemed to know exactly what he had just been dreaming, and Cross swallowed hard, feeling tears well in his eyes. "It's not your fault," he whispered, and Rapunzel licked his hand until he patted her head again. "I _know_ it's not your fault, sweetheart. You're just a dog."

Rapunzel barked, and he swore softly, rolling out of bed and crouching down, getting his arms under her belly before standing, holding the corgi securely to his chest.

"You're so _noisy,"_ he whispered, planting a kiss on the top of her head, and groaned when she took advantage of the proximity to his face and licked his cheek. "Thanks so much." He pressed his nose into her fur for a moment, just breathing, then sighed and toed open the door to his room, stepping out into the hall and glancing once to his right before heading down the hall to the left, stopping in front of a closed bedroom door and leaning close to rap his knuckles against the wood without dropping Rapunzel.

There was a moment of silence, broken only by Rapunzel's wide-mouthed panting near his ear, before there was a muffled _thump_ from behind the door, and it opened. "What 's it?" said Gripps, blinking at him with squinted eyes, and he raised his eyebrows as Rapunzel whipped her head around and _woof_ ed in his face. "Hey, girl," he said, reaching up to stroke her ears, then frowned, looking up at the taller man. "You okay, Cross?"

"No," said Cross, and his voice broke. "No, I'm—" He broke off with a sob, and Gripps pulled him into a hug, Rapunzel caught between them. "I miss him so much," he whispered, and Gripps held him tighter.

“I know,” said Gripps quietly. “We all do.” 

 

\--

 

“Fuck,” whispered Cross, rubbing his face with a tired sigh, and Rapunzel lifted her head from where she had been snoozing on the floor. “Too tired for this shit,” he said, and the corgi  _ woof _ ed softly. “Are you hungry, Rapunzel? I’m hungry.” Another woof, and Cross set his laptop to the side and stood, stretching with a groan, and the corgi trotted along at his heels as he headed for the kitchen. “Nothing to  _ eat,” _ he complained when he opened the door. 

“There would be,” said Martin, “if y’bought groceries once in awhile.” Rapunzel tilted her head to look at him, one ear flopping over, and he gave her a faint smile. “He ain’t so good at takin’ care of himself,” he told her, and she looked back at Cross, still muttering into the fridge, then at him. “What? He ain’t!” 

“Ohhh, what’s this?” said Cross, and Martin drifted over to see what had the taller man so interested. “Cupcakes,” said Cross, the word a low, appreciative moan, and Martin’s eyes narrowed. 

“Can you not  _ read?” _ he grumbled, but Cross didn’t hear him, and Rapunzel was no help -- she had scooted over to sit on one of Cross’s socked feet, looking up at him with tongue-lolling hopefulness. “Those aren’t for you.  _ Either _ of you,” he added, when Rapunzel tipped her head back to look at him. “Useless mutt.” 

_ “Woof,” _ said Rapunzel, and bumped her head against Cross’s leg. 

“Quit yer begging,” said Cross, stepping back from the fridge and freeing his foot from under the corgi, who whined in protest when he set the cupcake container onto the counter instead of giving her one. “This isn’t doggy food.” A slip of paper fell to the floor as Cross pushed the container further back on the counter, and Martin sighed loudly when Cross didn’t notice, the taller man too occupied with removing the orange paper wrapper from a cupcake. “Bee must’ve made these,” Cross muttered, admiring the ridged swirl of creamy frosting and the slice of fresh peach -- the whole concoction smelled deliciously fruity, and Martin lamented his inability to eat food anymore. There was another, underlying scent that Martin couldn’t quite place, until he knelt down to read the fine print of the note that had fallen. 

_ For Amanda, Do NOT Eat, _ read the bold print, and beneath it read,  _ Edible!!!! _ Martin looked up at Cross, who was shoving the last of the cupcake into his mouth, and a wide grin spread across his face. “Oh, he’s gonna regret that,” said Martin to Rapunzel, who blinked at him and whined when no crumbs were forthcoming. “He’s gonna be a  _ mess.” _

“These are  _ good,” _ said Cross, bending down to pat Rapunzel’s head and laughing when she licked his hand. “Nah, still not for you.” He took a second cupcake out of the container before putting the rest back into the fridge, humming quietly to himself as he tossed out the wrapper, lifting the peach slice from the top and crunching it as he headed back to the living room, Rapunzel and Martin trailing after him. 

“You are so  _ fucked,” _ said Martin, shaking his head in dismay as Cross devoured the cupcake, and Rapunzel flopped down onto the floor with a sigh as Cross picked up his laptop again, the corgi recognizing that she wouldn’t be getting any treats from Cross at that moment. 

“Back to work,” muttered Cross, wiping his mouth and licking the frosting from his fingers before squinting at the computer screen. “I hate paperwork,” he said to Rapunzel, who snored in response, and Cross sighed. “Thanks for the help, dog.” 

Martin sat on the sofa next to him, noting the time on the clock, and sat back, lighting a cigarette and grinning through a haze of smoke. It was almost like old times -- hanging out together in a comfortable, companionable silence, both of them content to do their own thing, just… enjoying each other’s company. 

Only… there were no jokes tossed to each other -- or pillows -- and no discussing what to make for dinner. Just silence, and it was much less companionable when he was the only one aware that he  _ was _ there at all. 

“Hmmmm,” said Cross, jolting Martin from his reverie, and he glanced at the clock -- almost half an hour had passed, and his eyes narrowed as he saw that there was no change in the document Cross had open from the last time he had checked a few minutes before. “Hmmmmmmm,” said Cross again, and closed the laptop, staring at it for a long moment before setting it on the coffee table. “Too tired for this,” he said, and Rapunzel lifted her head to look at him. “You’re not tired, are you? Since you sleep all day.” 

Martin let out a snort, and Rapunzel rolled to her paws, sitting up and glancing first at him, then back at Cross. “Woof?” she said, and bumped her nose to Cross’s hand, and he laughed. 

“You’re a good girl,” he said, reaching down to pat her head. “The  _ best _ girl.” He paused, considering for a moment -- long enough for Rapunzel to bump her head up into his hand to get him to resume patting her, so he did. “Best  _ dog _ girl, maybe,” he amended. “Maybe… not the best  _ girl _ girl.” 

“Oh?” said Martin, and Rapunzel sent Cross a reproachful look. “Do tell.” 

“Awww, don’t look at me like that,” said Cross. “You’ve  _ seen _ her, Rapunzel, she’s  _ amaz _ ing. She’s just… so…” Cross sighed wistfully.  _ “...good.”  _

Rapunzel licked his hand and he sighed, flopping onto his stomach with one arm over the edge of the sofa so he could continue patting the corgi, one side of his face smooshed against the cushion. Martin slid off the sofa to sit on the floor next to Rapunzel, to avoid being sat on, lighting another cigarette and giving up fighting the smile that was spreading across his face as Cross sighed again, most dramatically. 

“Rapunzel,” said Cross in a conspiratorial whisper, and the corgi let out a huff, her wet nose bumping against his, and he laughed softly. “That’s gross,” he said, and she just stared at him, unrepentant, and licked his face. “Yeah, it is. And that’s gross, too. You lick your butt with that tongue.”

“Y’don’t want to know what else she licks,” said Martin, and Rapunzel glanced at him, as if to say,  _ so what? _ He laughed, and she pointedly turned her back to him and sat down, leaning against the sofa and pressing her head into Cross’s hand, which was still dutifully bestowing affection on her. 

“You’re just… so short,” he whispered, stroking down her ruff to poke at her legs, and she licked at his hand again. “What’s it like down there, huh? Being so short?” He frowned, turning his head, and laughed softly. “You’re even  _ shorter,” _ he said, and Martin grinned as he saw the kitten picking her way along Cross’s long legs -- he yelped when her claws dug into the back of his knee through his pants. “Oh, thanks so  _ much,” _ he said, and the kitten settled on his butt, curling her tail around her paws for a moment before she stretched and resettled, kneading gently at the denim. “What are you  _ doing, _ cat?” 

“She’s enjoying a very nice ass,” said Martin drily, and the kitten glanced at him with wide dark eyes, blinking once before tucking her paws under herself and settling, purring, and Cross sighed again. 

“Whatever,” he muttered, “it ain’t like I was sitting on it, anyway. You do you, cat.” He paused, brow furrowing as he thought, then grinned. “Finn! That’s your name, right? Finn.” The kitten  _ meow _ ed, and he smiled wider. “Yeah, I think it was Finn. Finn the kitten. And Rapunzel the corgi. Sounds like, uh, some sort of adventure story, yeah? Well, Finn,” he said, then paused again, and giggled. “Well fin.  _ Whale _ fin. Haha, more like  _ shark _ fin, right? Little Jaws kitty? With those teeth?” She dug in her claws again, just briefly, and he yelped. “Yeah, okay, don’t kill me, geez. Cute little shark kitty. Soooo cute.” 

“Whale fin?” said Martin, shaking his head. “Really, Cross? You could do better.” 

“So cute,” whispered Cross, oblivious of his audience, and frowned at Rapunzel for a very long moment. “Rapunzel,” he said, his tone very serious, “I think I’m high.” 

The corgi licked his face, and he groaned. 

_ “Gross,” _ he said again. “This is  _ important, _ dog, you gotten  _ listen. _ How am I so high? Huh? Did you-- did you spike my tea, or somethin’? Is this a  _ conspiracy?” _

“Dumbass, you ate the cupcakes,” said Martin, and Rapunzel  _ woof _ ed, her stubby tail wagging against the floor. 

“Ugh,” said Cross. “Fuck my  _ life, _ I ain’t gonna get any work done tonight.” Rapunzel licked his cheek and he sighed. “Whatever. No worries. I’ll just be unproductive all night, that’s fine. Breaks are important, right? Don’t  _ lick _ meeee,” he complained, but Rapunzel ignored his request and continued licking his face until he pushed her nose away. “Fuck this,” he said, moving to stand, and yelped when the kitten dug her claws in, startled by his abrupt movement. “Sorry!” he said, flopping back down, and the kitten  _ meow _ ed loudly before leaping onto the back of the sofa, clambering up to sit on the top. “What?” said Cross. “Don’t glare at me, I want to be comfy, too.” 

“He is  _ so _ high,” said Martin to Rapunzel, who gave him a doggy grin in return and scrambled to her paws as Cross rolled off of the sofa, sitting on the floor and cooing at Rapunzel until the kitten  _ mew _ ed from the sofa and he got to his feet. 

“Right,” he said, “gotta get comfy,” and headed for the stairs, Rapunzel at his heels and Martin trailing after them, the blonde pausing only to give the kitten a scritch behind the ears. “Gonna get comfyyyy,” sang Cross, gripping the banister as he climbed the stairs, and Rapunzel barked at the foot of them until he came back down and scooped her up. “Your legs are so  _ short,” _ he whispered, and she licked his face. “That’s  _ still _ gross.” 

Martin got to his feet to follow Cross, now with Rapunzel in his arms, up the stairs to Cross’s room, where the tall man placed the dog gently on the bed before sitting down beside her, taking a moment to stare at his own socked feet. 

“Right,” Cross murmured when Rapunzel nudged his arm. “Right. Comfy. Gotta be comfy.” He got to his feet again, turning to poke a finger at the corgi. “You’re always comfy. I envy that, y’know?” He nodded resolutely, then shuffled over to his dresser. “Okay, Rapunzel,” he said, very seriously all of a sudden. “Your job is to make sure I get dressed and make it back downstairs, yeah? I don’t want the kitten to eat my laptop.” Rapunzel tilted her head at him, and Cross narrowed his eyes. “You understand, right? This is a  _ very _ important job.” 

_ “Woof,” _ said Rapunzel, and Cross gave her a thumbs up. 

“Great,” he said, “‘cause I’m too high.” He sighed heavily, turning to frown at his dresser. “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, ‘m too high. Ain’t that ironic.” Cross snickered to himself, then began pulling out flannels, holding them to his face before discarding them to the floor until he finally found one that was apparently good enough. “ _ Yess _ ,” Cross hissed, holding the flannel up triumphantly to show Rapunzel. “Found the softest!”

“You’re such a dork,” muttered Martin, standing in the door opening and shaking his head at his friend, though he couldn’t keep the grin off of his face. Cross had one arm in the flannel and was pulling sweatpants out of his dresser next, throwing the pair he’d found in the general direction of the bed, along with a pair of woolen socks. The second of the socks managed to hit Rapunzel, and she complained with a  _ woof, _ but seemed otherwise unperturbed.

“Pants, pants…” muttered Cross, and Martin stepped out of the room to give him a bit of privacy when Cross began working at the buttons of his jeans, tongue poking out of his mouth as he focused on the task. Martin poked his head back in to check on his friend when he heard a string of curses, however, only to find the other man sprawled on the bed and attempting to free his foot from the pants leg. Rapunzel was sitting up on the bed, head tilted to watch him, ears swiveling when Martin snorted a laugh. 

The next time Martin peeked in to the room, Cross was dressed and seated on the bed. The sweatpants were on, as was the flannel, unbuttoned over his t-shirt, but Cross was frowning at his sleeves, obviously deep in contemplation. “‘s goin’ on?” Martin asked, knowing full well there wouldn’t be an answer. 

“Not  _ soft _ enough,” said Cross to no one in particular. He tugged at a sleeve, then paused, and muttered something Martin didn’t catch, and then he was taking off the flannel again, and he’d tugged his shirt over his head before Martin had time to look away, and he was putting on the flannel again with a satisfied sigh. “Yep, yep, softer,” the taller man said happily, patting Rapunzel when she put her head in his lap. “Almost done,  _ princesa _ ,” he whispered, scratching behind her ears before reaching to tug off the socks he’d been wearing, then pulling on the woolen socks instead. Once that was done, he let himself fall back onto his bed with a contented sigh, arms spread wide. 

“I’m so  _ soft _ ,” he said happily, and Rapunzel barked as him as Martin leaned against the doorframe, a soft huff of laughter escaping him. 

“You gonna get that dumbass downstairs, or what?” said Martin after a few minutes of Cross just laying there with a smile on his face, and Rapunzel glanced at him, then back to Cross. She let out a hearty  _ woof, _ and Cross sighed. 

“You don’t need to go  _ out, _ do you?” he sighed, and groaned and when she barked again. “Fiiiiiiine, I’ll get  _ up, _ god, why did we even  _ keep _ you…” Rapunzel licked his hand, and he sighed again. “Yeah, yeah, you’re cute, I know, I know.” Cross dragged himself off the bed, muttered unintelligibly, and Martin followed him down the stairs. “Oh, fuck,” said Cross, at the bottom, and booked it back upstairs to rescue Rapunzel, who was patiently sitting at the top. 

Martin had to sit down, he laughed so hard.

“Fucking ridiculous mutt,” grumbled Cross, flopping onto the sofa at last, and cuddled Rapunzel to his chest, ignoring or oblivious to the corgi happily licking his ear. “What an utterly  _ ridiculous _ sausage of a pet.” 

A key turned in the lock, and Amanda stepped inside, cursing under her breath, and her eyes widened when Cross cursed as Rapunzel barked in greeting, loudly, right by his ear. “Hi, Cross…?” she said, a grin spreading over her face when she saw the cupcake wrappers on the coffee table.  _ “High _ Cross,” she amended, and Martin choked on smoke and coughed his way through a bout of laughter. “Hey, buddy,” she said, dropping her bag onto the floor and stopping next to the sofa, grinning down at Cross. “Just how many cupcakes did you eat?” 

“Don’t know, don’t care,” said Cross. “I’m so  _ soft, _ Manda! Feeeel meee, I’m so soft… wait, is that  _ food.”  _

Amanda nudged the bag she had set down and snickered. “You sure are, you big softie,” she said, and nodded. “I hope you like pizza.” 

“I  _ love _ pizza.” Cross pushed at Rapunzel, and Amanda wisely lifted the corgi off of him and set her on the floor before she could get accidentally dumped there. “What  _ kind _ of pizza?” 

“Two slices of pepperoni pizza,” said Amanda,  _ “each.” _

“What’re we gonna do,” said Cross, oddly serious, “when we run out of pizza?” Amanda ruffled his hair, and he grumbled into the throw pillow as she disappeared into the kitchen. “What about the  _ pizza,  _ Manda?” 

“We’re gonna eat it,” she said, reappearing with a cupcake in each hand. “Real talk, Cross, how many of these did you eat? I count two wrappers, but if you had more than that, you’re gonna be  _ baked, _ buddy.” 

“Baked like a cupcake baked?” said Cross, and she laughed, dropping onto the sofa next to him. 

“No more cupcakes for you,” she said, and took a huge bite of the one in her hand. “I gotta catch up,” she mumbled around the mouthful of cake.

 

\--

 

“We ran out of pizza,” said Amanda, and her tone was of one announcing the end of the world, not the end of their snacks. “You were  _ right, _ Cross, we  _ ran out of pizza. _ What do we  _ do?” _

“We get,” said Cross, after a long pause,  _ “more _ pizza.” 

Amanda turned her head to stare at him. “You doofus,” she said, “we  _ can’t. _ We can’t drive like this. And buses ‘re-- buses are  _ hard.” _

“Public transportation, man, for sure,” said Cross solemnly, and there was another long moment of silence. Finn rolled over on the sofa cushion between them, her tail curling around Amanda’s hand. “What if we get someone… to  _ get _ us pizza?” 

“Ooooo,” said Amanda. “That’s a good idea. That’s a  _ good _ idea, Cross.” She patted his arm with the hand not currently playing with Finn’s tail, and he laughed. “Bee,” said Amanda. “Bee should be--” Cross giggled, and she smacked him lightly,  _ “should be _ heading home…” Amanda checked her phone, “now. Ish. Maybe.”

“Call her!” said Cross. “Caaaall herrrr,” he said, when Amanda didn’t dial fast enough, and she shoved him over and leaned on his shoulder as she punched in the number. 

“Hiiiii, Bee,” she sang, tapping another button and holding up the phone. “Hiiiii, how are youuuuu?” 

There was a slight pause, then Bee’s voice crackled over the speaker, loud enough for them to hear.  _ “Am I correct in assuming you found the cupcakes I left for you?”  _

“Cross found them,” corrected Amanda. “And I found  _ Cross.” _

“She  _ found _ me, Bee!” he said, and Bee laughed. 

_ “And you called me to share this info?” _

“Yes!” said Amanda. 

“Wait, no,” said Cross. 

_ “Pizza!” _ yelled Amanda, echoed by Cross, and Martin couldn’t tell if the phone connection was crackly or Bee was just failing utterly at hiding how much she was laughing at them. 

_ “You guys want me to get you some pizza?” _ said Bee, and Cross cheered. Amanda punched him -- lightly, ish -- in the shoulder, and he yelped. 

“Please?” said Amanda. “Pretty pleeeease.” 

_ “...I’ll see what I can do,” _ said Bee. 

“Love you, Bee!” sang Amanda. 

“Love you!” yelled Cross, and Amanda ended the phone call, leaning back against the man and giggled. 

Then she stopped, tilting her head back so she could look up at Cross. 

“Oh, my god,” said Cross. “What did I just  _ say?” _

Amanda cracked up into giggles again, and Martin had to put his cigarette down to keep from choking on smoke as he laughed so hard he sank right through the chair he’d been sitting on. 

“You idiots,” he said fondly, shaking his head. 

 

\--

 

“Our  _ hero,” _ said Amanda when Bee opened the door, barely half an hour later. She held a pizza box aloft on her hand like a fancy waiter, trying not to drop it as Rapunzel danced around her feet, letting out happy little  _ woofs _ to see her. “Pizza, Cross, she brought  _ pizza!” _

Cross disentangled himself from Amanda and launched himself forward, nearly knocking Bee over in an enthusiastic hug. “My  _ hero,” _ he sighed, and Bee laughed, patting his back awkwardly with her free hand. 

“Don’t make me drop this,” she said, and he finally let go, retreating back to the sofa. Amanda scooped Finn onto her lap before he could sit on her, and Bee dropped onto the cushions between them, opening the box and giggling when both of them leaned into her. “Hungry, much?” she said. Amanda kissed her on the cheek and stole a slice of pizza, and Bee turned bright red when Cross did the same. 

“Dorks,” she muttered, and Martin grinned. 

“Cute dorks,” he said. 

“Bee,” said Amanda, after her first slice had been devoured. 

“What is it, Amanda?” 

“Cross is soft.” 

“I’m soft,” said Cross. 

“That’s what I said,” said Amanda, and Bee snickered.

“Eat your pizza,” she said, and they did, in moderate silence, for a bit. Martin moved to the floor, next to the snoozing Rapunzel, and let his hand rest on her side, feeling it rise and fall as she breathed, the fur tickling his fingers. 

_ “Bella,  _ con un nido de cobre enmarañado,” said Cross, and Martin lifted his head. He  _ knew _ those words. What were they-- “En tu cabeza, un nido,” continued Cross, his hand reaching up to tug gently on a lock of Bee’s long red hair, “color de miel sombría, donde mi corazón arde y reposa.” He sighed, and whispered, “Bella,” and Bee was blushing. 

“You smooth stoned bastard,” said Martin. “Is that Neruda? You poetic nerd.” 

“What was that?” said Amanda, eyes narrowing as she concentrated. “Neruda? What was that first bit?” 

“Nothing,” said Cross, and Martin snorted. 

“He said,  _ lovely one, with a nest of copper entangled on your head,” _ said Martin, and laughed when Cross grudgingly grumbled out the translation at Amanda’s insistence. Amanda frowned at Cross, then glanced at Rapunzel -- or rather, at Martin, next to Rapunzel. Cross grumbled some more and sank into the cushions, his cheeks red, and Martin grinned. 

“You always were a hopeless romantic,” he said, and laughed. 

“Guuuuys, the ghost.” 

Martin froze, the cigarette halfway to his mouth, the laughter dying in his throat. “Me?” he said, looking up sharply at Amanda. 

“I  _ swear,” _ the dark-haired woman said, patting Bee’s arm for emphasis, “I  _ swear _ I can hear him laughing. He thinks we’re  _ funny.” _  She paused. “And that Cross is a  _ dork.” _

_ “Everyone _ thinks that,” said Bee, and they both laughed over Cross’ indignant  _ hey! _ “I could’ve sworn it was  _ just _ weed in those cupcakes, not hallucinogens.” 

“Ain’t a hallucination,” said Martin, miffed, and Amanda nodded sagely. 

“Not a hallucination,” she said. “I swear, he’s right there,” she said, throwing out a hand and letting it flop to the sofa, too tired to keep it aloft. “Right there.” 

Martin gaped at her. “Can you see me?” 

“How many cupcakes did you have?” said Bee, a laugh in her voice, just as the front door swung open to admit Vogel and Gripps. Martin moved out of the way as they joined the three in the living room, following Rapunzel over to the easy chair, and discarded his cigarette and lit another. 

“So sleeeepy,” said Cross, and Gripps laughed, leaning down to ruffle his hair. 

“You lot are so  _ baked,” _ he said. “Time for bed.” 

“What a bunch of dorks,” said Vogel. 

“Tha’s what the ghost said,” said Amanda sleepily. 

“The ghost?” said Gripps. 

“Tell you tomorrow,” said Amanda with a yawn. “Sleep now.” 

“Dorks,” confirmed Vogel, and Gripps sighed. 

“Let’s get them to bed, then,” he said, shaking his head. “Dorks.” 

Martin watched as the two helped Bee wrangle Cross and Amanda to their respective rooms, Rapunzel snoring at his feet. He was so...  _ tired _ . He didn’t need to sleep, not anymore, but there was an exhaustion tugging on his non-existent bones. And that fucking beeping hadn’t let up at all. 

“I’ll see you later,” said Gripps, reappearing by the door, and Martin startled. 

“Yeah,” said Vogel, and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Say hi for me, yeah?” 

“Of course.” Gripps pulled Vogel into a hug. “Keep this lot out of trouble for me?” 

“Of course.” 

Gripps left, and Vogel trudged upstairs, a door closing firmly a moment later. 

Martin frowned, the low beeping steady in his ears and Rapunzel twitching in her sleep, her paws brushing against his boots, and he closed his eyes. 

 

\-- 

 

_ Hey, buddy, we miss you-- _

_ It ain’t the same without you here-- _

_ God, I miss you so much, I don’t know how long I can keep it together for the others-- _

_ I’m worried about Vogel, he isn’t handling this well. He’s trying so hard but-- _

_ Please come back-- _

_ Please come back.  _

_ Please. _


	9. In Which it All comes to an End

“Should we try, you know, talking to him?” said Amanda, plopping into the chair across from Cross and Gripps, and Bee looked over from the counter, where she was preparing tea. 

“Talk to whom?” she said, and Amanda raised an eyebrow at her. “The ghost?” 

“Yeah.” 

“How do you talk to  _ ghosts?” _ said Cross, and poured another packet of sugar into his coffee. “Don’t you need a psychic or some shit?” 

“Most ‘psychics’,” said Bee, holding up her hands for the air quotes, “are frauds. Ain’t worth asking any of them.” 

“What about a Ouija board?” said Amanda, and Bee shrugged. 

“Not always a good idea to mess with those,” she said, “ya never know what you might, you know. Invite in.” 

“Yeah, but we might be able to talk to the ghost, see what he wants,” said Amanda, leaning forward in her chair. “C’mon, don’t you wanna know who he is?” 

“I’d rather not bother him, you know?” said Bee. “What if he gets mad and starts haunting us for real?” 

“Nah, he seems pretty chill,” said Amanda. 

“He trashed the whole living room,” said Bee drily, and Amanda shrugged. She trusted her instincts, and they hadn’t sent up any red flags about the ghost -- yet -- so she wasn’t too concerned. 

“Maybe we have a poltergeist, too,” she said. “Who’s saying there’s only  _ one _ ghost?” 

“Jesus, I don’t think I can handle two,” said Cross, and downed the last of his coffee. “Okay, caffeine attained, time for nonsense. How the fuck do you use a weejeebies board?” 

“Ouija,” said Bee with a grin. “Don’t worry, we can show you.” 

“Did you bring yours?” said Amanda, and Gripps choked on his coffee. 

“You  _ brought _ one?” he said, eyebrows raised, and Bee grinned. “Into our  _ house?” _

“I swear it isn’t a haunted one,” she said, and Gripps shuddered, easing out of his chair and heading toward the stairs. “You aren’t gonna join us?” 

Gripps shook his head. “No, thank you,” he said. “Bad news to mess with that stuff. You never know what you might invite in.” He whistled, and Rapunzel emerged from under the table, smiling a doggy grin when he scooped her up into his arms. “I’ll be upstairs,” he said, “and I’m taking the mutt with me. Just in case our ghost decides she’d be a good host to possess.” 

Bee giggled at that, Gripps nodded goodbye, and a few minutes later Bee, Amanda, Vogel, and Cross were seated in a circle on the living room floor with the Ouija board laid out. 

“You sure this is a good idea?” said Cross, the last to place his hand on the planchette, and Bee grinned, leaning over to bump her shoulder against his. He blushed, and Amanda frowned -- she could’ve  _ sworn _ she heard someone laugh softly. 

Maybe she was imagining things… 

Martin smothered another laugh as Cross smiled weakly at Bee, jolted by the catch of Amanda’s eye, just for a moment, as she glanced at him. He sat down next to them, careful not to put his elbows through anyone’s arm, and lit a cigarette. This could be fun. 

If he was going to be a ghost, he might as well haunt them a little, right? 

If he could stay  _ awake. _ Or as awake as he technically was. 

“Who wants to be the designated questioner?” said Amanda, and the other three stared at her. “Fine, I’ll do it,” she said. “Okay, Mr. Ghost, if you’re here, we have some questions for you.” 

“How many questions were there exactly?” whispered Cross, and yelped when Bee elbowed him. 

“Shh,” she said. 

“Are you there?” said Amanda, grimacing at the vague question, and Martin blew out a slow stream of smoke, watching their attentive faces, all watching the planchette under their fingers. Amanda wrinkled her nose, but the others remained unaffected. 

“Dorks,” he muttered, and leaned over a bit to reach between them, fingers hesitating over theirs. Martin took another drag of his cigarette, and lowered his hand. 

“Shit, that’s cold,” said Cross, and Amanda inhaled sharply, Bee’s eyes widening as Vogel yelped. All four of them let go of the planchette, and Martin grit his teeth, pushing it slowly until it rested on the printed  _ yes. _ “Jesus fuck!” 

“Everyone saw that, right?” said Bee shakily, and Martin spun the planchette a little, just to see them jump, and let out a laugh when they did. Amanda glanced in his direction, but her gaze passed through him, and he sighed, his mirth fading. 

For all it was fun to mess with them, there was no punchline, no moment to jump from the wings and shout  _ surprise. _

“Okay,” said Amanda, a little breathlessly. “Mr. Ghost--” 

Martin pushed the planchette toward the  _ no _ \-- the honorific didn’t sound right -- but his fingers slipped, and the little wooden thing slid across the board and stilled on the printed  _ M. _ A coincidence, maybe, but the sudden weariness tugging at his limbs left Martin feeling rather incurious at that moment. 

“M?” said Vogel. “Is that-- your name?” 

Martin took a deep breath and pushed at the planchette, his arm brushing against --  _ through _ \-- Amanda’s elbow as he did, and she yelped. “Manda, you okay?” said Bee, and Amanda managed a quick smile. 

“Fine, I-- it was just the ghost,” she said. “I think.” 

“This is spooky,” said Vogel, but he was grinning, looking around as if he might spot the ghost. Martin smiled at the younger man’s enthusiasm, and poked at the planchette experimentally. It shifted, just a little, but it took more effort than before. None of them looked eager to put their hands back on the planchette, at least. 

_ “Mrrow.” _ Finn bumped against Bee and she jumped, laughing a little when the kitten  _ mrrp _ ed and jumped onto her lap. 

“Okay if Finn joins us?” she said, and Martin snorted, leaning over to give the kitten a skritch -- Finn purred, rubbing her head against his hand, and after a moment he had to sit back, tired. “Manda, you gonna ask anything more?” 

“Oh, yeah,” said Amanda. She was twirling the end of her ponytail around her fingers, gaze riveted to the Ouija board. “Mr. Gho- er,  _ M, _ what do you want?” 

“Straight to the point,” muttered Cross, and grinned when Amanda raised an eyebrow at him. “What? You are.” 

Martin considered the board for a moment, avoiding their patient faces. What  _ did _ he want? 

Besides to not be dead. 

He wanted-- 

He just wanted them to be happy.

“Maybe that’s too broad a question,” said Vogel. “Don’t you have to ask simple stuff? Yes or no? Or something?” 

“Maybe he left,” said Bee, and Martin flicked the planchette, sending it skittering onto  _ no. _ They startled. He couldn’t answer what she had asked, because he no longer knew the answer. 

\--

 

“Oh, hi,” said Bee, when she opened the door, and Martin shook himself, trying to focus. Why was he so  _ tired? _ “I-- Didn’t the mail already come today?” 

“Sure did,” said a heavily accented voice, and Martin frowned. Why did it sound so familiar…? “I’m actually here for a personal matter. See, I think you might have in your possession something of mine.” 

“Something of…?” started Bee, then shook her head. “What--” 

“A kitten,” said the voice, and Martin frowned. “Small, black, sweet as my mama’s peach pie.” 

“Oh,” said Bee, her voice small. “She’s-- the kitten is yours?” 

“She wandered off a few days ago, and I’ve been looking for her ever since. Heartbroken, I was, when I thought she was gone forever. You understand, right? Ain’t no friend like a pet.” 

“Right,” said Bee, and stepped back from the door. “Why don’t you, uh, come in, an- and I’ll go find her.” 

A blonde man stepped into the house, Bee closing the door behind him, and Martin vaguely registered the postman’s uniform the man was wearing. Sharp blue eyes darted quickly, taking in the house as Bee hurried down the hallway with a soft  _ “please wait here” _ and left the stranger in the house. 

“You,” said Martin, but the man didn’t hear him. Martin  _ knew _ him, recognized those cold eyes and the militant stance, knew that  _ voice. _

This was the man that had broken into their house. 

“What th’  _ fuck _ are you doin’ here?” snarled Martin, fingers curling into fists. The stranger moved to the television, picking up one of the framed photos Bee had left there, and Martin fumed. The man seemed less interested in the return of his pet than in snooping through their things, and it made Martin want to punch the man’s smug, smirking face. His head ached, and the lights flickered -- the stranger glanced up at the fixtures, once, then dismissed them as Bee reappeared, the kitten cradled in her arms. 

“Is thus--  _ this _ your cat?” said Bee, and Martin could hear the hope in her voice that it was all a misunderstanding, that the postman had the wrong house, had mistaken their kitten for his own. 

“That’s her,” said the stranger, lifting the kitten with ease from her hands -- Finn  _ mrrow _ ed sharply, claws digging into his skin for purchase when he shifted her closer, and the stranger smiled. “Sweet li’l Fawn,” he said, and she  _ meow _ ed again. 

“Her name is Fawn?” said Bee, and the stranger nodded. 

“Thank you for taking such good care of her,” he said. “What do I--” 

The lights flickered again, and Martin lost track of the conversation. He blinked, and the stranger was saying his goodbyes, Finn’s meows cut off as Bee closed the door. Martin watched the stranger walked down the driveway to the little post mobile, half-listening as Bee sniffled by the door. 

He was so tired. 

Why was he--

 

\--

 

Martin knew something was… happening. More and more time was slipping by without his knowledge, only the shift of the clocks and the marked days on the calendar Gripps dutifully kept up to date in the kitchen keeping him aware of what day it was. More and more hours were starting to slip away, the slow, steady beeping in his ears fading in and out like a bad radio. Something was happening. 

Or maybe… something was ending. Martin wasn’t at  _ peace _ with death, was still upset that his had come so soon, but he had accepted it, had accepted that his time with his friends --  _ with _ them, really with them -- was over. Had accepted that whatever came next was coming, and that there wasn’t much he could do about it. 

“I’m gonna miss you,” he said quietly, as Cross dropped onto the sofa next to Bee and Amanda, his gentle voice asking what they were watching. Martin drifted closer, catching the flash on the screen as the  _ Psych _ intro began to play, and glanced at the clock. Not too long until Gripps and Vogel would be home, and he could say goodbye. 

He didn’t want to say goodbye, could hardly think about it without his chest constricting, but-- 

It was time. 

“Season three was  _ such _ a good season,” said Cross, settling onto the cushions stretching out his legs with a relaxed sigh. “You watching the season premiere just for the episode title?” 

Amanda blinked, then laughed.  _ “Ghosts?” _ she said. “Wasn’t intentional at all.” 

Shawn Spencer was speaking on the television, the volume low and subtitles darting along the bottom of the screen to keep pace with the dialogue, and Rapunzel began to bark. Martin frowned as the barking continued, the sound of her little paws racing over the floorboards stopping as she reached the front door, still barking. 

“What’s the matter, babe?” said Cross, sitting up a bit, and Martin shook his head, trying to clear his muddled thoughts. Something wasn’t  _ right. _

The front door crashed open, and Rapunzel yelped, knocked backward by the swinging door. Two figures dressed in black burst in, the glint of firearms in their hands, and Martin couldn’t breathe for a moment. 

“What the  _ fuck,” _ said Cross, already on his feet, with Bee and Amanda behind him, and the two men turned toward them. Martin snarled, recognizing the blonde hair of the stranger who had masqueraded as a postman, and Bee gasped softly. 

“He took Finn,” she said, and Amanda’s confused question was lost in the thud of the men’s footsteps as they surged across the room, the younger one swinging his rifle and catching Cross in the arm when he tried to defend himself. Cross crumpled to the floor, his head hitting the edge of the sofa, and Bee screamed and leapt for the man as the not-postman went for Amanda. 

Martin watched it happen, almost dispassionately, too disconnected for a moment for it to sink in as more than a surreal impossible occurrence. Then Bee yelped as she was knocked to the floor, and the stranger struck Amanda when she kicked Bee’s attacker in the privates, and Martin  _ roared. _

“Don’t you  _ touch them!” _

The lights flickered, the room trembling as his hands shook, and Martin swayed, overwhelmingly dizzy. He couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t get his ghostly lungs to understand that he didn’t  _ need _ the air that they couldn’t seem to get, and he could no longer tell if the room was spinning for real or if it was all in his head. 

“What is that?” said the younger man, eyes wide and knuckles white as he gripped his gun, the muzzle shaking as he aimed it at Amanda, who glared at him from the floor. “What the hell  _ is _ that?” 

“You ain’t gotta concern yourself with it,” said the stranger. “Just clean up this mess. Unlike  _ last _ time, y’hear? No more mistakes.” 

“That guy was a lia-  _ liability,” _ said the younger one, and the older one sighed loudly. 

“Hitting people with a car is not a way to clean up a problem!” he yelled. “That just makes a bigger, messier one!” 

“Okay, okay, don’t yell at me,” grumbled the younger one, leveling his gun on Cross. “Is that him? The one that saw us kidna--” 

“Shut the hell  _ up, _ you  _ idiot,” _ said the stranger. “That was the blonde one, and he ain’t here!” 

“What the fuck are you  _ talking _ about?” said Amanda, and ducked when the stranger swung the butt of his rifle at her. She yelped, clipped by the blow, and Martin’s vision swam. 

“Where’s the blonde guy, little girlie?” hissed the stranger, and Martin snarled. 

The beeping had sped up into a continuous keening whine that set his teeth on edge and his headache spiking, shivers rushing through him, and the lights flickered, casting a yellowish sheen over the room. The furniture shook, books tumbled from the bookcase, and the television unbolted from the wall and crashed to the floor, just missing the younger intruder’s toes. 

“The  _ fuck!” _ yelled the young man, and even the stranger’s eyes were wide. Amanda skittered backwards away from them, hauling Bee with her -- she stumbled right through Martin and shuddered, gasping. 

“For fuck’s sake,” said the stranger, and he sounded perturbed more than frightened. He raised his gun, aiming for Amanda, and she had nowhere to run, not without abandoning Bee and Cross. 

The stranger raised his gun. 

Martin raised his hand, and the baseball bat Cross had left by the door flew through the air and smacked into his waiting hand. “Don’t you-- fuckin’--  _ dare,” _ he snarled, through laboured breaths and blinking past the yellow dots flickering across his vision, and swung the bat, abruptly close enough to knock the rifle up -- it went off with a sharp retort, and plaster dust and chunks rained down on them,  _ through _ him -- and the rifle clattered to the floor, knocked from the stranger’s hands. Martin swung again, leaning into the return swing, and the bat  _ cracked _ against the stranger’s arm when he raised it to block Martin’s attack, and the end of the bat struck the side of his head. 

The stranger dropped, and a shot was fired -- Martin felt the bullet pass through his chest, an odd, brief moment of discomfort, before the bullet struck the wall behind him. He turned with a snarl, and the younger man stared at him with wide eyes and a dropped jaw. 

“Who are--” started the man.  _ “What _ are--” 

“Your worst fuckin’ nightmare,” said Martin, and swung the bat again. The gun was knocked from the younger man’s grasp, blessedly not going off when it struck the floor, but the bat slipped from Martin’s fingers and he staggered, the world blurring for a long moment. 

Martin gasped, drawing in a shaky breath, and lifted his head as Amanda let out a yell and launched herself past him, snatching up the bat and swinging it to connect solidly with the younger man’s shoulder. He screamed, and Amanda screamed, catching him on the head with the bat, and he went down. 

The ringing in his ears was loud, so loud, and Martin pressed a hand to his forehead. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t think-- god, it was so fucking  _ loud _ \-- 

“It’s you!” said Amanda, and she was staring at him, could  _ see _ him, and Martin stared back, startled. 

She could see…? 

Something was ringing, and the thought drifted away. Everything was soft and fuzzy, and Martin realized, slowly, that he was drifting, too. 

So this was it. No time to say goodbye, after all. 

His eyes closed, and Martin was lost to the darkness. 

 

\--

 

Amanda sank to her knees, her entire body trembling. The two intruders lay on the floor where she and the ghost -- the  _ ghost! _ \-- had put them, unmoving beyond the slight rise and fall of their chests as they breathed, and she swallowed a sob. 

What the hell had that been? 

The weird ringing continued, and just as she realized it was a ringtone, Cross stirred with a groan, pushing himself up. “‘Manda?” he said, blinking at her with mild confusion. “You okay?” 

“I’m okay,” she said, and Bee groaned, sitting up and rubbing the side of her face. “Are you guys okay?” 

“Sure,” said Cross, then swore, digging his phone from his pocket and paling at the number. “Fuck,” he whispered, scrambling to his feet and groaning when he swayed. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he insisted, and answered the call. 

“Who are they?” said Amanda, and Bee shrugged. “What did they  _ want?” _

“That guy,” said Bee, pointing to the blonde man, “he’s the one that took Finn.” 

Amanda stared. “Then what the fuck was he doing here with a fucking  _ gun? _ ”

“Will one of you call the police?” said Cross, covering the mouthpiece of his phone. His face was tight with worry, and Amanda had a sick feeling in her stomach that the worst of the night was far from over. “Before these goons wake up.” 

“Yeah, sorry,” she said. Bee had her phone out in an instant and dialed, and Amanda glanced at the baseball bat she had dropped. 

Had she really seen…?

Had there really been a ghost? 

“Fuck,” said Cross as he ended the call, and Bee stepped away as she spoke to the 911 operator. “Fuck,” said Cross again, running his fingers through his hair, wincing as they caught on tangles, and glanced at Amanda. “I’ve gotta get to the hospital.” 

“I think we  _ all _ do,” said Amanda drily. Her whole shoulder and arm was throbbing in time with her growing headache, and she could only imagine how the other two were feeling. But Cross was shaking his head, swallowing hard. 

“It’s Martin,” he said, and she stared at him blankly. “Our… our other roommate. He’s been in the hospital, and, uh, they just called. He-- he’s not doing so good.” 

“Fuck, man, I’m sorry,” she said, and frowned as the younger intruder began to moan. “Shit. Should we tie these guys up, or something?” 

“Cops will be here any minute,” said Bee, stepping closer and glancing up at Cross with a concerned look. “You okay?” 

“Fine,” he said, then groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fuck, no, not fine.  _ Fuck. _ I need to--” The rest of his words were drowned out by approaching sirens, and the yelp of the younger intruder -- Cross planted a boot in the middle of the man’s back and leaned down, pressing him to the floor, and the man wisely stayed put. 

Then it was a whirlwind of cops and questions and flashing lights, and the wail of an ambulance, and Cross’s increasing agitation until the policewoman questioning them let them go. 

“Are you going to the county hospital?” said Cross to one of the paramedics, and at her affirmation, he offered a tentative smile. “Any chance I --  _ we _ \-- could hitch a ride?” 

More questions and poking and prodding later, the paramedics released them at the hospital with a promise that they would admit themselves for proper treatment, and Cross rushed to the desk to speak to the receptionist. He paused, turning to Bee and Amanda, and hesitated. 

“Could you--” he began, then swallowed hard, his eyes bright. “Could you come with me? I-- Gripps and Vogel won’t be here for--” 

“Of course,” said Bee, taking his hand in hers, and Amanda took his other hand when he managed a smile. 

“Thanks,” he whispered, and together they approached the desk. 

Gripps and Vogel arrived just as the receptionist finally cleared them, and the two men hugged all three of them immediately. “What happened?” said Gripps, smoothing Bee’s hair back from her face and inspecting the rising bruise. “Are you all okay?” 

“We’ll live,” said Cross, wheezing when Vogel squeezed him in a tight embrace. “We gotta-- fuck, we gotta go see Martin. It isn’t-- the doctors don’t think--  _ fuck.” _ Cross freed one hand so he could wipe at his eyes, tears rising quickly in the wake of his movement. “We gotta see him.” 

“Fuck,” said Gripps softly, and pulled Cross into another hug. “We go together, then.” 

“Yeah,” said Vogel. “Together, man. Always.” He reached around Cross and caught Bee’s hand. “You guys, too.” 

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” said Cross, his smile bittersweet, and Amanda squeezed his hand gently. Cross led the way for the five of them, and Amanda trailed at his side, feeling like an intruder herself in a private moment of their grief -- each of them holding back tears save for Cross, who had given up trying to hide them. 

The room they entered was quiet. Machines whirred softly, and a nurse rose from a chair, offering a brief smile before excusing himself and leaving them in privacy. A single bed was set in the midst of the machines, a lone figure lying motionless there, and they solemnly lined up beside the bed. 

“This is my best friend,” said Cross quietly. “Martin.” 

Amanda breathed in sharply. The man in the bed could have merely been asleep, if not for the quiet words of the doctors before they had gone upstairs --  _ flatlined briefly, unresponsive to stimuli after resuscitation  _ \-- and the grim looks on the faces of her companions. 

_ Best case scenario may be the worst-- _

_ We just can’t guarantee a recovery-- _

_ Risk of further brain damage from extended coma-- _

The mysterious fourth roommate, who Amanda had been convinced had died, wasn’t dead at all, but in a coma. Doing poorly, but still alive, for now. 

And the man laying in the bed was, unmistakably, pale hair and odd-coloured beard and all, her ghost. 

“He’s Martin?” she blurted, and they all stared at her, Bee’s eyebrows rising at her sudden outburst. 

“Yeah,” said Vogel, the first to find his voice. 

“But he’s--” Amanda glanced at him, eyes darting to Gripps, then Cross, before taking a deep breath. Fuck it. “He’s our ghost!” 

Dead silence met her statement, and she tore her gaze from where it had drifted to Martin’s sleeping face to see them all staring at her, jaws dropped. 

“What,” said Gripps, “are you talking about?” 

“That can’t be,” said Cross. “Are you-- are you  _ sure _ that’s what you--” 

“How can he be a ghost if he isn’t dead?” said Vogel. 

“I don’t  _ know,” _ said Amanda, and they quieted. She looked down at Martin. “All I know is he saved our asses today, and I saw him. It was definitely him.” 

“What do you mean, saved us?” said Bee. Amanda glanced at her, saw the concern in her eyes, and saw it mirrored in the eyes of the other three, as well. 

She must sound crazy. But she knew what she had seen. “When those guys knocked you and Cross out,” she said, tugging the sleeves over her jacket over her hands, shuddering at the memory, “the ghost just--  _ appeared. _ He grabbed the baseball bat, and knocked the big guy down, and nearly got the other one, too, but he-- faded? And dropped the bat. But he distracted them and took ‘em down enough for me to finish off the second one, and then he… disappeared.” She took a breath to steady herself. “He  _ saved _ us.” 

“Fuck,” said Cross softly. “I thought I heard-- he really was there, wasn’t he?” He was crying again, and Gripps wrapped an arm around him. “That means he’s--” 

“Don’t,” said Gripps, and Cross swallowed whatever words would have followed -- Amanda could feel the flavour of them, anyway. 

_ That means he’s dead, then. _

But he wasn’t. The machines monitoring Martin’s lifesigns still flashed steadily along, proving his continued existence, and Amanda remembered the fierce vitality and violence that had spurred her ghost as he wielded the baseball bat like some sort of ballfield knight. He wasn’t dead. 

He  _ couldn’t _ be. 

A doctor came in, and Cross bent down to whisper something to Martin before straightening, stepping aside to speak to the man. Amanda heard his words, though --  _ I need you, idiot _ \-- and she hurt for him, for all of them, that their friend might be slipping away from them. 

Gripps and Vogel drifted away, to stand by Cross and offer his their silent support and he spoke with the doctor, the weary tone of their voices bringing little hope, and Bee rested a hand on Amanda’s shoulder in a quick squeeze before she, too, stepped away to join them, leaving Amanda alone by the bed. 

Martin slept on -- if it truly was sleep -- and Amanda sat in the cold plastic chair the nurse had left by the bed. “Hey,” she said softly. There was no response, but she hadn’t really expected one. She wiped her eyes, unsurprised to find her sleeve damp when she lowered it. “Hey, uh, you don’t know me, and I don’t really know you, but… I know them. And they… they need you. They really fucking need you, Martin. So maybe you could wake up, huh? Come back.” Her voice broke, and she cleared her throat, reaching out a hand and resting it over his, still and pale on the pastel blue sheets. “Come back so we can meet each other for real.” 

She waited, her heart in her throat. Had that been a twitch? A flutter of eyelashes? Was she imagining things? She waited. 

Nothing happened. 

Amanda closed her eyes, shaking her head at her foolishness, and squeezed his hand gently. “Wishful thinking,” she muttered, wiping her face on her sleeve, and her eyes widened. 

Blue eyes were looking back at her, sleepy and barely focused, but blue, and open, and alive. 

“Martin?” she breathed, and his fingers twitched in her hand, curling slightly, and she felt a wild grin tugging at her face. “Guys,  _ guys!” _

Cross was at her side in an instant, the others close behind, and before long they were all being ushered out of the room as nurses and doctors hurried to and fro. Amanda’s fingers tingled with the phantom touch of memory, of her ghost’s hand in hers, warm and  _ alive, _ and Cross was crying again, this time in relief. 

Somehow, the doctors said, just as incredulous as they were, Martin was awake. 

And he would be okay. 

 

\--

 

“Holy shit, guys,” said Cross, lowering the phone and sinking back into the sofa, eyes wide. “Remember that missing girl that was all over the news?” 

“Yeah,” said Gripps. “Lydia Spring, right?”

“Yeah, her,” said Cross. “Apparently those kidnappers thought Martin saw them do it, so they tried to run him down, and then they somehow tracked him down here to finish the job.  _ Je _ sus.” 

“Did they say anything about Finn?” said Bee, leaning into his side, and Cross wrapped an arm around her for a gentle hug. 

“Sure did,” he said. “She’s waiting for us at the station. Apparently she didn’t belong to that creep, after all, she was just an excuse to get into the house.” 

“What a creep,” said Bee with a shudder. 

“They want us all to come in tomorrow to ask a few more questions,” said Cross, rubbing a hand over his face with a sigh. “What a fucking mess.” 

“Tomorrow, huh?” said Amanda, leaning forward to snag the remote from the coffee table. “Good, then we can finish our movie in peace.” 

“As soon as we get more popcorn,” said Cross, hauling himself up with a groan. “Can I get anyone a drink? Martin?” 

Martin looked up at him from the sofa, tucked against Amanda’s side and wearing Cross’s hoodie -- at Cross’s insistence -- and very, very much alive. “Nah, I’m good,” said the blonde, and he was. Cross wandered into the kitchen, and Martin looked around at his little family, at the people he loved most in the world all gathered together, and he smiled. Rapunzel  _ woof _ ed softly from the floor where she sat sprawled over his feet, and Vogel grinned at him from the other end of the sofa. 

All of them, together again. 

Yeah. He was good. 

 

 

 

_ FIN(N).  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!!!!!!! I had so much fun writing this fic and maybe someday in the future I'll share all the many, many deleted scenes that didn't make the final cut. <3 
> 
> If you wanna say hi, you can find me on [tumblr.](http://intricatecakes.tumblr.com/) <3


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